


Avalon

by FantasyOcean



Category: Original Work
Genre: Avalon - Freeform, Blood, Fantasy, Gen, War, Wings, angel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2020-07-28 01:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20055469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantasyOcean/pseuds/FantasyOcean
Summary: Earth and Avalon have always been linked, two planes of existence, two worlds forever revolving one another. The bridge between can easily be found if one knows where to look. Avalon is a land of purity, and its inhabitants will do anything necessary to keep it that way. Humanity has always been viewed a stain, a disease that threatens the border, and so the Nephilim, winged warriors of Avalon, rose to beat back the spread of a destructive, sinful virus.Mydaiel is just entering the folds of the sisterhood, having completed her training, she is ready to join the hunt and spill blood as Avalon dictates she do until her final, dying breath. It is a great sacrifice and great honor, and she is proud to take the mantle. But corruption can come from anywhere and the hunts have grown increasingly dangerous, that her first may not go entirely as planned.Join the story where two worlds collide in a painful, bloody battle that threatens to become an all out genocide.





	1. The BloodBath

White elderwood pews stretched in neat rows down the cathedral, each positioned in perfect linear position to the one in front. The high, curved beams of the domed ceiling supported billowing woven tapestries depicting the long history of Avalon. Though the hall was full, it may as well have been empty; barely a whistle of breath disrupted the silence.

Lingering in the entrance way, Mydaiel shifted her weight and smoothed the wrinkles of the floor length, white satin robe cloaking her form. It nearly matched her porcelain skin, what little could be seen. The sleeves hung past her hands, which she’d laced together beneath. A hood hung low over her forehead, concealing golden ringlets that normally haloed her angular features. Slanted ice blue orbs stared back at her as she caught sight of her reflection of a polished marble column. She chewed her lip and looked away, eyes closing as she inhaled sharply.

_ You are afraid. Dumb fool._

She sighed and wrung her fingers. There was no reason to be afraid. Not really. The ceremony was a crucial milestone, but it was far from strenuous. The bleed was far worse. Mydaiel shivered and shook her head, hands rising to readjust the hood. It was best not to think on memories past.

_ The bleed was the best thing to happen to you._

While she knew it logically, it was still a hard moment to think back on. She’d quaked with nightmares for months. The music began, filling the cathedral with the harmony of piano keys and plucked harp strings. It was time. She lifted her chin and stepped through the archway into the main hall. All eyes were on her, burning like hot pokers into her soul, but she spared none of them a passing glance, knowing if she did, her knees would buckle. Stumbling today would be in very poor form. Her bare toes sunk into the fibers of the scarlet carpet rolled out down the center aisle. Her chest was tight, each breath burned her lungs. As she reached the front, climbed the sharp marble steps onto the platform, she bowed her head. Another breath sucked in and her hands came up to fumble with the ties on her robe. Tugging the knot free, the fabric tumbled to the floor, pooling at her feet, and she shivered as her flesh was exposed to the chilled air. Before her, a deep pool carved into the stone. It was filled with thick ruby fluid. The acrid, metallic tang filled her senses.

“Child of Avalon,” the first voice to break the verbal silence was rasped with age. Mydaiel didn’t dare raise her head, but she knew the owner well. A tall woman with spindly limbs and the faintest hint of wrinkles to her cheeks. The high priestess was the elder of Avalon, the longest lived of them all. She was strict, firm in their ways, but oversaw everything the closest to perfection any could hope to come. “You have come of age. The time is now for you to join your sisters in the ranks of the hunt. From this morning forth, you will dedicate your life to the service of Avalon, and all the duties of our people,” Astarte’s voice lingered, hung heavy in Mydaiel’s ears. She swallowed the rising lump in her throat. 

_This is your moment. Quit quivering like a plucked bow string._

“From the first dawn of Earth, Avalon has existed. The two worlds have circled on another. And for a time, there was harmony. Until the rise of man. Humankind has tainted a natural haven. As a species of Earth, they’ve the right to life. As creatures of greed and spite, they’ve a sentence for death. We of Avalon are tasked with thinning the herd. Of pulling the weeds to prevent the disease of sin from spreading like wildfire.” The atmosphere grew tense. Everyone in the hall knew the tale by heart, could recite this very speech upon request. It was more than a duty, it was a legacy. Their legacy.

_Your legacy._

Mydaiel felt her heart flutter within her anxiety riddled chest. She was about to enter the embrace of something ancient, beyond any one of them. The embrace of eternity. Of destiny.

“It is we who keep the flames contained. It has forever been our purpose. Your purpose.” At Astarte’s words, Mydaiel sunk to her knees. She needed no prompting, it was her place. “You knelt upon this stage once before, Child of Avalon, and bled away the poison in your veins, as many of your kin have done. Now you will rise to join our ranks.”

Mydaiel licked her lips. She kept her head bowed. She had been silent now for three cycles, dawn through dusk. A worthy vow of silence to come before the vows she’d speak this day. Those that would bind her heart and soul to Avalon. The chill of the polished stone beneath her seeped into her hunched form like an inkblot across parchment, biting deep into her bones. She welcomed it.

“Will you pledge your life to Avalon? Will you fly in the hunt, take up the mantle of culling those who stain the Earth with greed, manipulation, and pain? Will you spill the blood of sin, and soak your feathers in the aftermath. Will you liberate Earth and Avalon from the poison of humanity, even at the cost of your own blood and breath?”

“I will,” Mydaiel agreed. “Until my dying breath, I pledge to serve Avalon, to serve the cause, in any and all ways within my capabilities.”

“Then rise, Child of Avalon. Submerge yourself in the lifeblood of sin. Let it seep into you like a vaccine, so you might forever remain impervious to the draw of demon temptation.”

Mydaiel rose slowly, finally lifting her chin from where it pressed against her collarbone. Her gaze remained averted, however. She could not yet consider herself among the ranks of her peers. It would show great disrespect to forget that now, in this final moment.

The blood was thick, and still warm as it seeped between her toes. There was a small step ringing the interior of the pool, and only her ankles were swallowed in the substance as she stood on it. There was not a scrap of fabric to taint the process. The blood would cloak her flesh better than any garment today. The feathers, long white stems which ended in a widened curve, that sprouted from her body in a half ring from hip to hip across her back, brushed the backs of her knees as she moved. Smaller, downy feathers spread up her back, rippled over her shoulder blades. Little feathers decorated her heels, now plastered to her skin within the basin. Mydaiel inhaled slowly, then stepped off into the center of the pool.

She sunk easily up past her waist, until the ends of her hair nearly brushed the surface of the ruby liquid. One more breath, and she tipped her weight back, allowing the blood to envelope her form completely. The viscous fluid dragged her down, cocooning her as she floated neither near surface nor bottom. Around her, silence and darkness reigned. Her senses flowed away downstream one by one. She saw, heard, smelt, and tasted nothing. The burn began as an itch, the prickle of a thousand little insects crawling her body. Steadily it sharpened into heated needles piercing her flesh.

Mydaiel opened her eyes, allowed the uncomfortable sensation to wash over her vision, though there was nothing to witness save dark wreathed in a reddened tinge. The metallic tang of the blood, cloying and thick, flooded her mouth as lips parted to accept it. She allowed the blood, spilled from numerous kills, to gradually invade each of her senses.

A bubble broke from one nostril, fluttered to pop open on the surface. It was followed by another as Mydaiel exhaled slowly, siphoning the air from her tightening chest out into her surroundings. Though her lungs constricted, her throat closing as her brain pleaded for the life-granting gas, Mydaiel ignored every instinct and desire for breath. She would not need it here. Perhaps if she’d been able to move, primal instinct would have overtaken her and she’d have surged to the surface in a fit of rasping coughs. She could picture the way her cheeks might suck in like a fish and blood would spatter from her lips. As it was, she could not cave to such desires even if she wanted to. Her limbs hung heavily, a numb tingle spread through them, as if she were carved from rock instead of flesh and feather. Her body was too great a weight for her to move, suspended in the silence as the discomfort grew.

A taut knot twisted in her gut and fire flickered within her chest as though the cavity were filled with dry, cracked kindling. As her thoughts grew hazy and sensations began to once more die away, Mydaiel closed her eyes once more. She knew very little about what occurred within this pool, what her kin experienced. It was rarely discussed in detail, a private moment of terror and pride so tightly woven they could not be differentiated. She felt those emotions rising in her, an ever expanding balloon. Fear of death, fear of the discomfort, of never rising from these depths, perishing surrounded by the sin she was destined to cleanse from the world. But also pride. Immense self pride for making it this far, for not having quit or stumbled. Once or twice, those of lesser will and fortitude had panicked, backed out at the last moment. Those individuals needed to be dragged into the pool, held down by their sisters in arms until the flailing stopped. Those ones rarely lived. 

When her breath could be held no longer, Mydaiel gave in. The blood, which felt like it had come to a boil, scalded down her throat and invaded her nostrils as she inhaled. She did not choke, did not cough or sputter or claw for the surface as something far more clogging than air filled her lungs. She did not even twitch, though it burned with all the flames of hell. 

Her body felt lighter suddenly, the pain that had ignited her nerves moments prior faded to a dull ache, barely noticeable. Mydaiel opened her eyes, squinting as she adjusted to the harsh beauty of a high noon sun. Grass, soft and springy beneath her bare toes, stretched over rolling hills for miles. Before her, a twisted, gnarled trunk stretched from the ground, splitting into a wild tangle of branches that cast a cooling shade over her. The trunk was solid, formed of jade rather than bark. Topaz leaves and ruby blossoms shone brilliantly as the rays of light caught the fractals of the gems at just the right angles.

There were more of the trees dotting the landscape, some bore leaves of emerald or flowers of dark sapphire. Each was as glorious as the last, and Mydaiel could have stared at them for days. She knew of this place, though she had never stepped foot on the grassy slopes beyond the gates of Avalon. As she turned, she saw the radiant city in the distance. It shimmered like a mirage, the pure white stone almost seeming to waver in the light as though it were a leaf fluttering in a breeze. Spiraling towers of various libraries and keeps, as well as the domed top of the cathedral poked above the wall that ringed the kingdom in.

Their city was constructed at the edge of their world, bordering the drop, the bridge between Earth and Avalon. Her kin rarely ventured beyond the keep, save to gather occasional resources or see to any conflict that may affect the land. For the most part, they kept to what they needed, and allowed the beauty of their world to remain untouched. They were guardians of the drop, warriors of a haven, cleansers of the disease of destruction that rampaged Earth. Their task was as much about salvaging what remained of Earth’s glory as it was about containing the flames lest they spread to infect Avalon as well.

Within the blink of an eye, Mydaiel stood in fields of gem trees no longer, but instead looked over a lake. The waters were still, undisturbed, not a ripple breaking the illusion of crystal. But it was not stone, as the trees, simply water so pure, nothing could taint its surface. The sparkle off the lake caused her heart to constrict. She took a deep breath and bowed her head, allowing the tears to burn in her eyes. She understood the meaning of the visions, the landscape flashing behind closed lids. It was to show her, to further her understanding, of what she was truly protecting.

_Until my dying breath._

With the vow, awoke a hunger the likes she’d never experienced. It dug its claws deep into her gut. A hunger, a thirst. This she knew of. The desire to hunt, to feed, to cleanse. Awakening it within each Avalon Angel was the purpose of this ritual. Drowning in the sin of mankind brought it to the surface, and would stay with her throughout every hunt. This was her life’s purpose. The task to which she’d been groomed from childhood. It was time now to take her place in the hunt. She was finally ready. She could feel it deep within her soul.

“Mydaiel? Mydaiel, it is time. Awaken.” As a voice cut through the illusion, it wavered. Mydaiel groaned. When her eyes opened next, she staring up at the high, vaulted ceiling of the cathedral. She licked her lips and swallowed the mouthful of blood still pooling in the back of her throat. Her mouth felt rather slimy, but it was not unpleasant. If anything, she craved another taste. Her chest expanded as she fed air to starved lungs for the first time in several minutes. She felt a little woozy, but otherwise unharmed.

The moment she began to breathe again, several sets of hands were there, pushing her upright, then lifting her to her feet.

Her skin was still dyed red from the basin, and her legs shook as she put her weight back on them. She turned and found a smiling face staring at her. Hazelnut eyes stood out against ashen skin framed in black, wavy tresses. A few wisps hugged an angular jawline, while the rest were tugged back into an elaborate braid perched atop her head. “You have done well, Mydaiel,” the woman praised. Her voice was rich and velvety, and rumbled in her chest as she spoke. She dipped her head until their foreheads met. Mydaiel closed her eyes and smiled. The gesture had always been one of quiet affection and she appreciated it.

“Thank you, Sarielle,” Mydaiel purred. Her feathers ruffled as she preened under the older angel’s attention.

A weight dropped down across Mydaiel’s shoulders as another practically draped herself over her side. The same pale skin and dark hair greeted her, though these locks where slashed short over the angel’s shoulders, and her eyes were a bright hazelnut. She grinned openly, ruby lips spreading to reveal pearly teeth. “How do you feel?” Charmeine inquired. Unlike Sarielle’s deeper pitch, Charmeine’s voice had a higher lilt, sweet as a flute’s tone.

Mydaiel pondered the question and smacked her lips. “Hungry,” she admitted.

Sarielle chuckled. “Fear not, sister. That will be sated soon enough.”

“Yes, the hunt is nearly upon us. I too am famished,” Charmeine sighed, throwing an arm against her forehead. Mydaiel smiled. Despite being nearly two decades her elder, Charmeine had a refreshingly youthful flare for dramatics. Mydaiel loved the two as deeply as possible. Sarielle had long since been initiated, Charmeine on the cusp, but both had treated her with tender attentions from the day she was adopted into their care. Though not linked through blood, they treated her as part of their clutch all the same.

She was jerked from her thoughts as Sarielle shook her discarded satin cloak out over her shoulders once more, tying it off. “Come. Avalon will celebrate its newest warrior and it will not do to have you show up looking part of the banquet.”

Mydaiel blushed. She was well aware of her feathers still pasted to her body, of the blood beginning to dry and flake along her skin. She lifted an arm for a closer examination. The smell alone was enough to drive her wild, lingering in her sinuses like the cling of rotten eggs.

_Delectable rotten eggs._

She licked her lips. The hunger was raking at her gut like a caged predator. Her stomach felt shrunken, gripped by unrelenting briars. Perhaps she could get away with just a lick or two.

It would be a shame to waste.

Sarielle caught her wrist and Mydaiel nearly leapt from her own flesh. “Each of us is familiar with your hunger. It is always most intense when it first awakens. But you must learn the discipline to control your appetite. You are permitted to feed during the hunt, Mydaiel, but duty comes first.”

“Duty comes first,” she agreed with a dip of her head. “Avalon comes first. I-oof-” Mydaiel broke off, winded, as Charmeine’s open palm landed firmly between her shoulder blades and knocked her recently reclaimed breath from her lungs. A few gentler pats followed.

“It gets easier,” Charmeine cut in. “Wait until your first flight.” There was a moment where her heart stalled in her chest at Charmeine’s comment. She glanced up at Sarielle, tilting her head to meet the gaze of the older angel, a full head taller. Her eldest sister blinked slowly and nodded. The two were vastly different. One was stoic and stern, and took her obligations very seriously, while the other was more laid back and playful. Though there wasn’t a soul in the cathedral that would question Charmeine’s loyalties. They did not speak with her often in detail about the hunt. She knew very little about it, aside from the duties she was expected to perform. It was a sacred tradition, a legacy, and the merits of it were not described to the uninitiated. Children of Avalon were left to wonder.

But Mydaiel was no longer a child, not after today, and her first flight was something she had been dreaming and imagining about from a very young age. Now that it loomed, her heart was a fluttering butterfly within her chest. 

“Come,” Sarielle repeated with an incline of her head. “Let us get you cleaned up. There is a feast to attend.”  
  
**  
**   
The first chapter in something new I'm working on. It's going to be a lot darker and more intense than anything I've done before. Chapter two is already up on Patreon for anyone who is interested. Hope you all enjoyed the first installment.   
-Fantasy Ocean


	2. One of Us

Mydaiel spent the rest of the afternoon under the less than tender ministrations of her sisters. Her skin had been scrubbed free of any trace of blood, though still glowed an irritated pink. She bit the inside of her lip and shared ahead. She did not move, despite the raging urge to fidget and yelp.

_You are not a child!_

Charmeine’s breath tickled her as she leaned close to run a bristled brush over the tiny feathers sprouted from the undersides of Mydaiel’s breasts. They were miniscule, barely a downy fuzz along her flesh, and the only part still dyed a vibrant shade of ruby. She was still vaguely disappointed she hadn’t gotten the chance to sample a little of the liquid.

_Such a waste._

Sarielle was behind her. Though she could not see her, Mydaiel could picture the pursed lips and stoic expression her eldest sister almost always wore. Currently, her fingers were tangled in Mydaiel’s curly hair, weaving the strands into a braid so tight her roots pulled. Sarielle then wrapped the braid around in a coil that she pinned down atop Mydaiel’s head.

“I appreciate the gesture, but I can get myself ready,” she protested. There was little conviction in the argument. She would never disagree with either of them. She had rarely been doted on like this, however, and was slightly uncomfortable with all the attention she was receiving. A lack of independence was frowned upon, and she had learned very quickly in her youth to do things for herself or face consequences.

“Hush.” Sarielle’s reply was stern, but softly spoken. On instinct, Mydaiel’s lips pressed together and her gaze averted downwards, though she could not have met Sarielle’s eyes regardless. When an elder of one’s brood gave a command, it was to be obeyed. Casting her gaze down brought her to meet line of sight with Charmeine, who’s lips pulled into a sly grin, her tongue poking between ivory teeth. The middle sibling winked and heat rose in Mydaiel’s cheeks. Sarielle’s authority would always stand, but Mydaiel was no longer a fledgling and had a right to her own choices and actions now.

_Old habits really do die hard. Passive, submissive follower. _

Sarielle’s hands were no longer in her hair and her sister’s clipped tone startled her. “Turn.”

As Mydaiel twisted to obey the command, her breath hitched in her chest. When a fledgling became fully initiated into the ranks of Avalon, it was their clutch that worked on a piece for the celebration after. Sarielle’s clutch was small, with her blood sister and Mydaiel. She had not expected much from them, perhaps a small token. Instead, Sarielle stood holding a gown. The fabric pooled on the floor, a white silk with gold stitching. The long sleeves were a woven lacework with a pointed tip at the end of each sleeve. A twinkling opal sat embedded on each. The lattice work looked painstaking, with tiny feathers, suns, and crescent slivers of moon embroidered into the piece. The waist cinched and the neckline dipped, but would reveal very little.

The details were gorgeous and precise. Immense care went into it. But they did not draw Mydaiel’s eyes for long. Feathers dangled from the sleeves of the dress, their lengths coated halfway in dried, preserved blood. It glistened with a ruby sheen coating the petrified follicles long the feather shafts. They were not tail feathers, nor the downy fluff along the rest of the body. The long, curved feathers with pointed tips came from the wing.

At first, she did not understand. The feathers ran down to the elbow, attached with tiny golden hooks. The hooks continued down the rest of the sleeve. She took a deep breath. They were clearly intended for her to add to them over time. Her lip wavered, but she bit hard against the inside of her cheek to keep the tears at bay.

_Family. I am the continuation of a legacy. Wanted. _

She could have fallen to her knees and wept then, for it was her one true want, and her worst fear to be denied it. Sarielle and Charmeine were not just sisters, but her sisters. Well and truly.

“A feather for every first kill of the year,” Charmeine explained.

“Every year since you were placed with us,” Sarielle added.

The gift was perfect. Beyond anything she could have asked for or ever deserved. Wing feathers were precious. They were a gift of Avalon. Granted flight, beauty, and freedom, and they were a crucial element to the hunt. And they did not pluck easily. That Charmeine and Sarielle would pull so many spoke volumes for how deeply they wanted her in their clutch.

She dipped her head at her older siblings. “Thank you. This must have taken far too much time and effort.” She reached and gently took the gown into her hands, marveling at the feel. The back of the down was open down nearly to the waist, and it looked sized to her impeccably.

As she stepped into it, Charmeine moved behind her to help pull the sleeves into place and adjust the fabric as it enveloped Mydaiel’s body. “It took no less effort than it was worth. Than you are worth,” she murmured.

“Charmeine speaks truth, Mydaiel. You have so much potential and we would be lesser without you. You are worth every feather and more, and I know come the hunt, you will show all the ability we see within. You will make Avalon proud,” Sarielle’s tone was solemn, but her wide eyes spoke volumes of emotion she always held back and Mydaiel was flooded with the warmth of everything else left unsaid in her elder’s irises.

When Sarielle’s hand lifted, Mydaiel leaned her cheek into it and sighed softly. “I will give everything I have,” she promised, in part to her sister and to herself. There was nothing she would not give for Avalon and all that lived there.

Sarielle’s other hand raised and she gripped either side of Mydaiel’s face and pressed her lips to her brow. Her warm breath lingered for a moment. “You are ready, little one,” she purred. Mydaiel closed her eyes and hummed in response. If it were anyone else, she may have taken offense, but Sarielle meant none. To her, Mydaiel and Charmeine probably were small and in need of guidance. It was merely a gesture of care and affection. “It is time.”

The light and chatter from the banquet spilled out into the halls. Mydaiel wrung her fingers against the folds of her dress. She hoped neither sister flanking her sides would notice. It was silly to fear a celebration, and yet her heart drummed steadily to a frantic beat as her anxiety spiked. Until now, she had never been welcomed to feasts. She had dined only with other fledglings, her clutch in private, or alone. She was one of them now, but she still felt a youth trespassing where she ought not to be.

As they stepped together through the arch doorway, Mydaiel shoved her worries down deep to be worried about later, when she was not at risk of making a fresh fool of herself. The banquet hall was a feast for the eyes. The walls were blocks of carved soapstone, white with grey and brown veins swirled throughout. Long rows of marble benches stretched alongside four massive tables. Three ran in columns spaced about eight feet apart, while the fourth was at the far end, a head table of sorts. Mydaiel easily picked out a few of the high council elders seated there, and many of the other places along the tables were taken as well. There was a low chatter building over the crowd as various quiet conversations took place.

When Mydaiel, flanked by her sisters, entered the room properly, one of the council elders stood. Astarte. Her gray eyes were slightly narrowed, her lips pursed, though Mydaiel knew that was always the case, the woman wasn’t specifically displeased.

As soon as she stood, a hush fell over the crowds and heads turned. Suddenly Mydaiel and her clutch were the center of attention and it took all her willpower to stand still and straight, rather than bow her head and shuffle under their collective gazes.

“We are joined by the newest of our ranks tonight,” Astarte began, her gruff voice magnifying over the silence. “Mydaiel, your sisterhood has waited patiently for you. As have your brethren.”

At the elder’s words, Mydaiel glanced around without moving her head. There were males at the tables, dotted among the ranks. She’d seen them before, in passing, but never spoken to one. They weren’t trained together as children and had different tasks on the hunt, but they flew as one flock when the time came.

“You have one final rite to pass,” Astarte continued, which surprised Mydaiel. There was more?

The bloodbath was really the last formal rite that was discussed with fledglings. When she was very small, she used to pester her sister with endless inquiries and musings about the inner sanctum, the hunts, the sisterhood. They had been very tight lipped about it all, merely telling her that she would know in time. As she grew, she ceased asking questions, having accepted that answer, but now wondered if she should have pressed them again for details. She felt dreadfully unprepared and it sent a prickle of nerves down her spine, though she remained still and attentive. Astarte was still speaking, though no longer to her.

“Sarielle.” Mydaiel watched her eldest sibling step forward. Sarielle’s chin was lifted, her posture like a pillar, shoulders back. Her silk gown was also open down the back, and slit up one leg. Mydaiel could see the tips of her long tail feathers peeking out from beneath the calf length gown. There was a quiet envy flickering in the pit of Mydaiel’s gut. She admired her sister’s calm confidence and sense of duty. Sarielle would do anything for Avalon.

Mydaiel truly wished to someday carry herself the same way, knowing fully what her place was, and thriving in it.

_Could have that already if you weren’t such a coward. Foolish child._

Sarielle sunk to one knee, fingertips bracing against the floor for balance, the other arm pressed at her chest. Despite the loss of height, Sarielle still felt impressively tall. Her presence carried.

“Sarielle,” Astarte called again. “Mydaiel has completed her training in the council’s eyes, excelled in her exams and proven herself worthy in the ceremonies and ways of our people. Is she ready for the final step?”

The silence that stretched in the milliseconds after the inquiry were a worse sensation than Mydaiel imagined standing on white hot needles would be. She resisted the desire to shift nervously. It felt like a hesitation. Why would Sarielle hesitate? Surely her sister did not mean to hold her back, not after the effort the two seemed to put into Mydaiel’s ceremonial gown.

Her anxiety was running away from her again and she forced herself to rein it in on a tight chain. Regarding Sarielle more closely, Mydaiel could see in the relaxed position of her shoulder blades, the angle she held her chin; there was no hesitation in Sarielle’s answer. “She is,” her sister responded with a curt bob of her chin.

Astarte remained silent and the moment seemed to stretch long enough for Mydaiel to study every frown line, every gentle wrinkle and crevasse of the elder’s skin. Astarte’s lips seemed to pull thinner and Mydaiel’s heart cinched at the idea her passing would displease the priestess. But Astarte’s features only hardened for a few seconds before they softened again, tension evaporating like water on hot stone.

“Then it is time.” When she spoke again, the words filled the room. “You know what is to be done.”

Sarielle’s head dipped into a bow, the fingers previously only touching the floor then pressed flat as her braced. Mydaiel did not move, did not speak, though she wanted to rush to Sarielle and ensure she was alright. Beside her, Charmeine shuffled her weight discretely, and her shoulder bumped Mydaiel’s. “When she rises, kneel,” the middle sibling murmured. “Do not speak, do not break eye contact, just as you are doing now. Sarielle will guide you.”

Mydaiel wanted to press her for more, but Charmeine moved away, silently stepping off to the side and joining one of the others on a long bench.

Sarielle grunted softly and Mydaiel was certain only her proximity allowed her to notice it. Then, like a miracle at work, Sarielle’s wings erupted from her back. Mydaiel watched with rapt fascination as the feathery limbs pushed free of the flesh, the bones merged with Sarielle’s shoulder blades. They took the majority of her upper back, sleek, massive, and powerful. They flapped once, stirring the air, and then folded to settle against Sarielle’s spine. The primaries trailed on the floor while the wing bone arced high over her shoulders. The rippling feathers were not white. Mydaiel knew the undersides were, though she could not see them, but the backs were vivid and as assorted as gemstones. Sarielle’s were a slate gray, with flecks of earthy browns, golds, and ruby tipped. The shades were subtle, but they stole Mydaiel’s breath from her lungs. It was hard not to lust after the appendages she so desperately wanted herself.

Twin thin rivets of blood rolled down the grove of Sarielle’s back, but her sister barely seemed to acknowledge any discomfort may have stemmed from the sprout of her wings.

Keeping to Charmeine’s advice, as soon as Sarielle rose and turned to face her, Mydaiel sunk down to her knees. She did not break eye contact, though she desperately wanted to. Sarielle’s face was expressionless, a sea washed stone as she strode forward with purpose. It sparked nerves deep in her belly; her sister was stoic, but never this blank.

Her concerns weren’t helped when Astarte spoke up again. “Bring forth the blades.”

A shiver ran down Mydaiel’s spine. It was not so much the proclamation that unnerved her. She was not afraid of a weapon or the risk of pain or injury, but the silent somber atmosphere of the room made it difficult not to feel concern about what was coming.

The blades that were presented were thin, curved daggers, longer than normal with wide hilts wrapped in aged leather. Gemstones were embedded in the metal, a large blood ruby in the center of the width, positioned up closer to the hilt, for each blade. There were ancient runes carved down the lengths, but she could not read them. These were ancient artifacts, from Avalon’s birth. A language that her people could no longer read. The woman who had brought them in had knelt down and held the chest up on a cushion towards Sarielle. Her face was angular, eyes downcast, and her head was wrapped in a silver shawl, a plain silver-gray gown covering her body. This was not a warrior, but rather a scholar. Those who studied Avalon history and legend, who tended the libraries and fields. Scholars and high priests could come and go from Avalon’s core, but ultimately, the warriors held the greater respect, as Avalon’s line of defense and Earth’s liberators.

Sarielle showed no hesitation as she lifted the blades from the chest. The scholar dipped her head and moved back. There was silence in the room. Whatever was set to happen, it was clearly meant for just the two of them. No one else was to be involved.

Mydaiel took a breath as she fought to wrangle her tangled emotions. Emotion had no place in ceremony after all, where one had to be as calm and tranquil as Avalon itself. As she struggled, Mydaiel felt one of Sarielle’s soft, warm wingtips brush over her arm. It startled her, and while she didn’t move to look, she relaxed. Sarielle would not have made contact unintentionally, but it was subtle enough to go unnoticed by the masses. It was a tender reassurance and Mydaiel held fast to it.

She could feel the butt of the dagger hilt pressing against her skull as Sarielle placed one hand on her head and began to apply pressure. “Bow your head,” she murmured so softly Mydaiel had to strain to hear. She obeyed instantly, tucking her chin. “Further, Mydaiel. You have to bend; chin to chest.”

Once more, Mydaiel did not question her sister, but craned her neck into the awkward position so her back was arched above her. She shivered, not liking where this was leading. She had never seen any scars on Sarielle or Charmeine’s backs to indicate some sort of carving ritual, but that meant little in the moment. The first kiss of the metal against her back was cold and delicate, but lasted only a second before the blades began to sink in unison into the middle of her shoulder blades.

A burning pain was immediate as they dug deeper, but Mydaiel clenched her jaw and said nothing. It stung a bit, to know it was Sarielle wielding the blades. It would have been much easier if it was someone clinical that she did not know well. This felt a little closer to betrayal as the pain grew worse, like her very core was being set ablaze. Did she carve into Charmeine as well, when her sister was initiated?

Mydaiel decided it was cruel to have a member of the clutch do this, but she dared not move or protest. Sarielle, for her part, was delicate with the motions. The blades did not jerk or rip and her sister never once hesitated, pulling them smoothly down the length of Mydaiel’s back.

As hot blood began to flow, Mydaiel felt sorry that it was going to stain the dress they’d made, though there was nothing she could do about it. The blades were molten against her back, fresh from a forge. Were they glowing? Something was shining in the corners of her eyes, and she was beginning to feel woozy from the agony ripping through her nerves, though she forced her body to remain physically relaxed to make Sarielle’s job easier.

The daggers carved down to the small of her back, nearly to the hem of the dress she was wearing, that was open backed and she now guessed she understood why. The blades were taken away and then Sarielle’s hand was pressed flat to her spine, dead center between her shoulder blades.

“Mydaiel.” Sarielle’s voice sounded odd, it echoed as if far away and something inside Mydaiel constricted. “Nephilim of Avalon,” she continued, and Mydaiel felt that grip within tighten further; it was difficult to breathe now. As a species, her people were known as the Nephilim, but she knew that the term did not stir this sort of feeling. Sarielle was certainly doing something to her, however, and it felt far from natural.

She heard Sarielle take a breath behind her, felt her sister’s hand on her flesh as she pressed her fingers deeper against the skin. “I summon thee.”

The instant the words left Sarielle’s lips, pain exploded in Mydaiel’s skull. She gasped, unable to bite it back, as angry spots swarmed her vision. It felt as though someone had reached into her and was yanking out everything inside. If there was not some sort of unseen force keeping her glued to Sarielle, she would have toppled over. Blinded and unable to breathe, Mydaiel’s senses screamed for it to end, anything was better than the unending waves crashing over her. A strangled noise ripped from her throat as the crescendo peaked, and then everything crashed and the silence was heavenly.

She found herself letting go and the tight painful coil in her gut unfurled. Something deep inside just let go with a whispering sigh. Feathers brushed her bare skin and a new strength flooded her; it was wild and fresh. The air around her stirred as the new appendages flapped spastically, and she felt Sarielle’s free hand on her. Her sister’s fingers tightened on the new limp, gripped it tightly and forced it back into a folded position. The discomfort brought Mydaiel back to her senses and while the wings did stir the air once more, she regained control. The new instincts pumping to her brain had her shuffling them and folding them to her back.

Her chest was heaving and the aftershocks were still rippling through her senses, but a massive grin stretched across her face. Her head was bowed, so no one would see and she allowed herself a moment to bask in the sensations of having wings. She could feel every feather, still ruffled and buzzing with the experience.

“Mydaiel,” Sarielle spoke again and Mydaiel jumped at the sound. For a brief moment, she had forgotten that the room was full. “Rise,” Sarielle continued. “Rise as winged death, a warrior of Avalon; as one of us.”

Mydaiel rose shakily and her wings half extended. She felt both lighter and heavier at the same time, and her balance was off; it would take some getting used to. Forgetting propriety and poise, Mydaiel spun on her heel and threw her arms around Sarielle, squeezing tightly. “Thank you,” she purred, her throat tightening. At first, the ceremony had felt such a betrayal, but this was a gift far more precious than Mydaiel could have ever asked for. She had always strove to be the best she could and one day join the ranks like her sisters, but the wings were always so foreign and magical a concept, part of her had never truly believed she would ever have them.

Sarielle was stiff for a moment, then her arms came up and she squeezed Mydaiel back. “You have earned this,” she murmured. “Now release me and spread your wings. Let everyone see you as you are now.”

Feeling a little reluctant, Mydaiel obeyed the instruction and turned back to face the head table. Her wings still felt a little wonky and she nearly whacked Sarielle in the face as she extended them. Out the corners of her eyes, she could see the brilliant white down on the insides of the limbs and her heart fluttered once more. Testing them out, she tilted them forward to show the backs and give herself a look. More creamy white feathers stretched down the backs, streaked with gold and silver tips. The flight feathers had a faint rouge tinge and black edges, but white and gold stood prominent along the wings.

There were murmurs of approval among the table occupants and Mydaiel felt ready to melt. The elders said nothing, but dipped their heads in her direction. Astarte’s expression did not change, but when she raised a goblet at Mydaiel, she knew she had passed all necessary tests.

When Sarielle’s feather tips brushed her arm, Mydaiel turned to see her sister’s soft smile. Sarielle jerked her head slightly to where Charmeine was already sitting, beaming at them both. Mydaiel slid onto the chilled marble bench, flanked by her clutch. Charmeine was on her instantly, running her fingers through Mydaiel’s feathers. “Hurts, huh? You held up better than I did. I actually screamed. A soft gasp is highly respectable,” she said.

Mydaiel blushed and shrugged, her wings bobbing as she did, but did not comment. Instead, she turned to Sarielle and finally posed one of the two questions weighing her tongue down. “How did you do that?” she inquired. “The way you spoke….when you said my name it was like there were rocks in my chest, I could not breathe.”

Sarielle blinked slowly and did not respond immediately, though her features stiffened until her expression was stony. “From now on, Mydaiel, it is crucial that you remember that feeling. I can call on that ability when in hunt form, because I am head of clutch, but it is not widespread for us. Your Avalon given name is linked to your soul, it holds power over you and is rarely used. Should those of Earth learn it, it would be your end, you understand? I used it only to call your wings.”

Mydaiel nodded, accepting the words for their value. “Good thing there is little reason to chat with those on Earth.”

Sarielle smirked then and nodded. “Indeed. You have another question. You are squirming like you used to in your youth. Speak, Mydaiel, you are equal now to us.”

Mydaiel’s blush deepened. “Forgive if I overstep, but you cut my wings free and Charmeine’s as well,” Mydaiel trailed off and she saw Charmeine nod out the corner of her eye. Relief flooded her at that, she had been worried she may have been wrong. “Who stood behind you when you were initiated? Why is ours so small a clutch?”

Sarielle’s arm lifted, her fingers tangled in Mydaiel’s hair and drew her head close until their foreheads touched. “No one,” Sarielle responded. “I never knelt for the blades. No clutch head has. My wings burst from my back in my youth; I was taken and indoctrinated in the inner sanctum and trained by the elders directly.” Mydaiel winced at the implications there. No wonder Sarielle was so stoic. “When Charmeine began her studies, she was separated from our birth clutch and transferred. They decided that it would be easier if I had someone with blood by my side, since I was separated so young. And then you came along; they were going to put you with another clutch, one larger, with a more experienced head, but I requested the chance.”

Mydaiel frowned. She had never heard much of anything about her placement; after all, she had never had any reason to question it. “You asked for me? Why?”

Sarielle dipped her head in confirmation. “I saw inner potential.”

Mydaiel longed to question her further, but Sarielle’s head had already turned in response to the hall doors opening. Food handlers were making their way into the gallery, laden with the contents of the night’s meal. The inquiries would have to wait; the feast was beginning.


	3. Fight or Flight

Mydaiel prodded at the contents of her plate; the blood pears oozing ruby juice. Despite the rampant hunger pains gnawing at her gut, she had little appetite and a once favored Avalon delicacy seemed to turn to ash in her mouth.

“Something amiss?” Charmeine’s warm shoulder pressed against Mydaiel’s side and she glanced up into her sister’s questioning gaze. Around them, conversation bloomed and no one seemed to be paying her any mind any longer, which suited Mydaiel fine.

She shrugged in response to the inquiry. “I seem to have lost taste for this meal,” she murmured back and heat flamed her cheeks at so petty a problem.

To her surprise, Charmeine’s response was an amused giggle, airy and haunting, and she nudged Mydaiel. “It is the wings,” she responded. “You have endured many changes this day and are half starved. You will feel more normal, whole, after a hunt; after you have truly fed. We are not far off now. I would have thought it wiser to delay your ceremony until only a night or two prior, but the choice was not mine to make.”

Mydaiel did not respond right away, unsure of how to answer, and Charmeine seemed to read her own interpretation of her silence, for her sister’s hand came up to rest on Mydaiel’s back, between where her new wings met her shoulder blades. The site was still tender and Mydaiel flinched, not anticipating the contact. Charmeine’s fingers danced effortlessly over her back, kneading tiny knots free of the new appendages and smoothing down the feathers. Mydaiel relaxed instantly, a content hum rumbling in her throat as her wings shuffled beneath Charmeine’s attentions. “Eat,” her sister instructed, her tone tender. “It is not satisfying, I know, but you will need the strength.”

Mydaiel was disappointed when Charmeine’s hand dropped away, leaving only a fading warmth lingering behind, but she acknowledged the validity of her words, much as she did not care for such a truth at the moment. Three bites of the fruit was enough proof that no matter her attempts, the pears that practically drooled juice from every pore were doomed to feel dry and flaky in her mouth. She dutifully choked down the meal despite the churn of her stomach as it gurgled in protest.

“You look as though you just had a blood feather ripped free,” a deeper voice sliced into her wandering thoughts. Mydaiel glanced across the table where one of her brothers in arms leaned back on the bench. The hilt of a blade peeked over one dark shoulder from the sheath strapped to his back, and dark brown hair was pulled into a short tail at the base of his skull to keep the bangs out of his face. Eyes like liquid coal stared at her and he had his arms crossed over the chorded vest he wore. The silver cuffs he wore stretched up each forearm glittered as they caught the light.

Mydaiel did not know his name, but she blushed at the implications of his words; others had noticed her discomfort. She chewed on her lip, not certain of a polite response.

“We have all experienced this,” he continued, dipping his head towards her. “It will grow easier.”

Another of the sisterhood sat beside him and nodded in agreement. “This feast is not truly for you, Mydaiel,” she added. While Mydaiel had hair like strung gold, this woman’s was softer but somehow equally brilliant, like the locks had captured pure sunlight, and her eyes were a pale ice blue, while her smile was full. “Here, try this instead,” she offered as she cradled a goblet and held it out to Mydaiel, shaking it as if to entice her further.

“Do not give her that, Jefischa,” Sarielle protested at the same moment Mydaiel accepted the cup with a quiet ‘thank you’. Her sister’s protest gave her pause and instead of drinking, she stared into the vessel at the thick, near black liquid inside. It had a strong smell that burned her senses.

“A sip will hardly harm her,” Jefischa argued with a wave of her hand. “Would you rather she learn at the hunt?”

Sarielle pursed her lips but said nothing and Charmeine bumped Mydaiel again. “Drink,” she urged with a nod. “Jefischa is right; it may do you some good.”

Mydaiel hesitated once more, then brought the rim up to her lips and tilted the goblet so the liquid flowed into her mouth and down her throat. Instantly, taste burst against her tongue and scalded her throat as every cell seemed to ignite at once. She coughed, nearly dropping the cup, fluid dripped down her chin. Losing momentary control over her body, Mydaiel’s wings snapped open. A cackling Charmeine managed to duck out of the way, but Sarielle was not so fortunate and Mydaiel could hear her eldest sibling sputter as a face full of feathers crashed into her. Mydaiel gripped the goblet hard enough that it shattered in her hands, soaking the table in juice and raining shards down on the nearest plates.

Her chest heaved and her vision narrowed as the hunger flared like tinder to a blaze. She felt powerful and the desire to fly, fall, rip into flesh was a raging inferno within; she wanted more of the drink.

“Easy, Mydaiel,” Sarielle’s calm tone cut through the haze as her sister forcibly refolded the wing closest to her. “Do not be controlled; breathe.”

The air whistled between Mydaiel’s teeth as she inhaled sharply through a clenched jaw. She coughed again and shook herself. She carefully shuffled her wings so they lay folded against her spine once more. “What is that?” she gasped.

Charmeine was still chuckling beside her. “That is the best reaction I have seen in a long time.” Her words caused Mydaiel to shrink on herself a little.

“Do not worry, Mydaiel, all untried have a strong reaction. It is three parts human blood and one part everberry wine; a powerful drink taken before the hunt,” Jefischa explained, though humor equal to Charmeine’s glimmered in her gaze. “It is taken in controlled doses, as it can be addictive, but those untried can have an extreme reaction so it is better to introduce them prior to unleashing them on Earth.”

“I can see why,” Mydaiel muttered.

“Indeed,” Sarielle agreed. Her sister was rubbing a red mark on her cheek. “For one so new, you have quite a bit of power in those wings of yours.” Her sister rose from her seat, stepped fluidly over the bench and stared across the table at the brother beside Jefischa. “Hofniel, would you attend us?”

At the request, Hofniel rose silently and moved around the table. Charmeine stood as well. “I would come as well.”

Mydaiel glanced between them and hesitantly followed in suite. There seemed to be no ill will or consequence and it was not disapproval in Sarielle’s gaze, but satisfaction and Mydaiel released a breath; she was not cross over the unintended attack. Sarielle glanced to the head table and dipped her head and there was an unspoken exchange between she and Astarte. “Come, Mydaiel,” she beckoned as she made her way toward the hall entrance. They were joined by another brother, this one built more lean than bulky, with the same darker contrast of skin than Mydaiel and her sisters. His hair was a red-gold shade like the murky veins in quartz, and he bore a spear rather than a sword on his back. It quietly unnerved her that they seemed to be always armed, but she supposed if she shared their tasks, she may never part with a blade either.

Mydaiel followed dutifully as Sarielle led them down the twists and turns of the cathedral hallways. The city had several courtyards, but there were closed tunnels to travel to every part of the compounds, and fledglings were rarely permitted to leave, so when Sarielle headed for an exit, Mydaiel’s breath hitched with excitement. She had yearned for the chill of fresh air on her flesh since the last time she had been allowed to venture out for a few moments, many years ago.

As they stepped into one of the grassy courtyards, Mydaiel glanced to the sky, where stars twinkled against the inky indigo. The air was crisp on her tongue as she breathed deeply; it felt wonderful caressing against her new wings. Charmeine stepped up beside her, her sister’s wings beginning to pull from her flesh. Mydaiel watched in wonder as they snapped open and Charmeine’s feathers ruffled. The backs were a soft red, nearly a rose pink shade, with darker tipped flight feathers. She had rarely ever seen Charmeine’s wings and they never ceased to be beautiful. They were angular, smaller and more delicate that Sarielle’s broader sails.

Mydaiel glanced back and got her first glimpse of Hofneil’s. The insides were not white like those of the sisterhoods’, but a deep blood red so dark they were nearly black, and the tops were similarly dark. They were massive, easily twice the size of her own. The other brother had wings just as large, but a rich, dark brown instead of red. They were definitely an intimidating pair, and Mydaiel supposed that was the point. As if by some unspoken consensus, both took off in unison, bathing the courtyard in gusts as they rose on powerful appendages.

Mydaiel watched in awe as they circled in a tight formation above her head. Charmeine followed them, her wings carrying her easily despite their smaller size and it quickly became evident that her sister was built so delicately for agility, as she zipped in a quick figure eight and then hovered in place, staring down.

Sarielle stepped up and unfurled a wing to curl around Mydaiel’s shoulders. “Are you ready?” she inquired as she held out a hand.

Mydaiel took a deep breath and nodded sharply. “Yes,” she agreed, taking the offered hand. Sarielle’s wing whapped her atop the head as her sister sprung from the grass and took flight, nearly yanking Mydaiel’s shoulder out of place as she was dragged a foot off the ground.

“Mydaiel,” Sarielle’s voice turned sharp and strained. “You have wings,” she reminded.

Shaken from her daze, Mydaiel nodded and spread her wings. They caught the air easily, and though her strokes were wobbled and uneven, Sarielle never faltered in helping her remain aloft. Charmeine dipped down on her other side, each flap of her wings smacking against Mydaiel’s until her strokes evened out and she began to rise on her own.

A wide grin flowed across her face as confidence surged and she released her tight grip on Sarielle’s fingers. She let instinct take over and soon her strokes were tight and straining as she rocketed up towards the stars. Charmeine fell behind, but Sarielle kept pace and Hofneil remained overhead. For a few moments, Mydaiel got to simply enjoy the freedom of flight, a joyful howl ripping from her throat as she defied gravity for the first time. The feeling could not last forever and Sarielle reminded her of that with a tap of her feathers against Mydaiel’s wing. “This is for you to learn,” she reminded before her voice raised. “Baxtz, if you would.”

The previously unnamed brother needed no further prompting as he hurtled towards them. A deft push of her wings took Sarielle away, leaving Mydaiel on her own. A frown twisted on Mydaiel’s face at what was going on. She got her answer as Baxtz slammed into her feet first. The blow landed between her wings and Mydaiel cried out at the abuse and Baxtz forced her down. The test became clear and Mydaiel took a breath into constricted lungs, hoping that she could put as much trust into her feathers as she could her other limbs; she was so new to flight.

Trusting her first instinct, Mydaiel folded her wings and dropped towards the ground. It was dizzying, watching things rush back into focus. She could feel Baxtz following her, and forced herself to hold the dive despite the desire to pull up and avoid spattering against the ground. She drew closer and closer and her pursuer was now calling out her name with worry instead of attacking. At the last possible second, she spread her wings again and threw her weight. Her heart was pounding in her chest and her wingtips brushed the ground on the down stroke as she struggled to bring herself back up into the air; it was a challenge and she nearly lost control a few times. Glancing back, she seemed to have stunned Baxtz just long enough to give herself a moment’s reprieve and she heard Charmeine’s breathless whoop of joy.

Baxtz larger wings granted him the advantage of power and he easily caught up, this time an arm reaching to grab her wing. She rolled to the side and smacked him with the same feathery arm but the next stroke brought her too close and he wrenched her wing behind her. Mydaiel grit her teeth and accepted the pain for what it was; a message to do better. She let him yank her backwards only to plant her feet against his chest and shove with all her strength. It knocked the breath from him and sent him flipping backwards, ripping some of her down free in the process. He was stronger and in the open air she could not match him in speed, so Mydaiel dropped again, choosing instead to weave between the trees where his wingspan was a hindrance instead of an aid.

Her idea was strong in theory, but she was still far from experienced and each time her feathers tore against rough bark from a narrow miss reminded her how easily this minefield choice could turn against her.

She had managed to leave Baxtz behind, however, and pride swelled in her chest moments before another weight landed on her, driving her into the bark of a thick tree limb. Charmeine was only crouched on her for a moment, weight crushing Mydaiel’s breath from her lungs. “Sorry sister,” Charmeine purred. “But this test is not one you will pass so easily. You must adapt to anything if you are to survive a hunt,” she warned. Mydaiel kicked her feet in open air, managed to get her hands beneath her to roll Charmeine off. Her sister was already back in the air, waiting, by time Mydaiel managed to take flight again. Charmeine zipped in for another blow to Mydaiel’s wings.

What had been an advantage against Baxtz was a death trap against Charmeine. Her sister was far more nimble and at home in the maze of branches and leaves. Her muscles burned from the strain of the blows she’d taken and the effort of keeping herself aloft. Panting, Mydaiel rose above the trees, trying to buy herself time to rethink her strategy. She could outmaneuver Baxtz and outrun Charmeine, but she would never have the advantage over both, and quietly hoped Sarielle would not get involved, as she knew her sister was far more ruthless, skilled, and experienced than she could ever hope to compete against.

Her heart was racing as Baxtz flew towards her once more. She was beginning to feel like a cornered mouse between a stalking cat’s wicked claws and the comparison caused a surge of indignation; she was not prey and it was time she ceased acting like it. She could not run forever. Twisting midair, she dove towards her pursuer. Slamming into Baxtz was like smashing into a rock, but her momentum and the element of surprise aided her and they flipped in the air in a tangle of limb and feather. She bared her teeth and hissed at him before shoving him away and ducking behind, kicking at his wings like Charmeine had done to her.

She quickly found that if she stayed just behind him, he could not turn fast enough to reach him. For a fatal moment, she forgot about Charmeine, who had needed a little time to catch up, but charged the battle with a vengeance, her weight dragging on Mydaiel as she hung onto her wings. “Pay attention, sister,” she hissed in warning as they began to plummet. Mydaiel twisted and flapped as the tailspin began, but she could not shake Charmeine who had clung tightly. This time, as the ground rushed closer, Mydaiel felt true fear and her efforts became more frantic.

At the last moment, Charmeine released her and helped pull her back up into the sky, but the message was clear; she had lost that fight. Mydaiel sagged, bruised and tired, and it was Sarielle that caught her. “You must never forget to be alert,” she spoke sternly. “You are difficult to kill, but not invulnerable, and weakness will be exploited. No single target is so important that you can afford to forget your surroundings. Fights will not be one on one.”

“Lesson learned,” Mydaiel wheezed. Blood was dripping from her left wing where feathers had been torn out and she was certain she would be plucking slivers from her scraped arms and torso tonight.

“That aside, you did well for your first flight.”

“I thought you were done for in that death drop,” Charmeine added as she caught up and patted Mydaiel on the shoulder. “It was an impressive feat, but perhaps avoid taking such a risk if not absolutely necessary; Sarielle is right, you have superior strength and can survive things many mortal creatures cannot, but you can still be badly injured.”

“You have good instincts,” Hofniel praised. “But your talent is raw and unbalanced, it needs refining.”

“But you hit a lot harder for your size than expected,” Baxtz muttered, rubbing his shoulder. Mydaiel beamed and found herself straightening up a little, despite her exhaustion, and a little of her former doubts and meek demeanor began to melt away.

“Come,” Sarielle interrupted with a jerk of her head. “I think you will appreciate a good rest; you have a lot to learn to prepare for the upcoming hunt and very little time to fit it all in.”

Despite the grueling session, Mydaiel was almost reluctant to land as the group angled their wings toward the ground and began to descend as a silent unit. Her legs shook when she finally touched down and folded her quivering wings behind her. Flight had felt so wonderful, but it left her equally exhausted.

There were more questions burning in her mind and on her tongue. She would never shy from a test or training session, but its purpose eluded her; humans did not fight in the sky or in hand-and-wing combat, nor would it be a battle field with anticipating opposing forces. So what was the purpose of learning against her own? She kept her thoughts to herself, knowing now was hardly the time to voice them. She trusted Sarielle; her sister and clutch elder may be younger than many of the others, but Charmeine and Mydaiel had never lacked any of the skills needed to succeed in their training. Sarielle’s methods had proven effective thus far and she had no reason to question them, even if she longed to inquire more about human tendency. She knew very little and wanted to better understand the enemy. Ignorance could be a fatal weakness, one she did not want exploited.

They parted ways with the two brothers shortly after and on instinct, Mydaiel turned for the shared dormitory the hatchlings slept in. “Mydaiel,” Sarielle’s calm tone gave her pause as she remembered it was no longer a place she would stay.

“Come,” Charmeine beckoned with a wave of her hand. Her folded wings peeked out over her shoulders and the feathers ruffled as she shook herself. “Join us, sister.”

Mydaiel crossed her legs as she sat on the thick carpet of expertly woven quilts that were hers to nest in. The fabric was soft and warm, in mottled shades of brown and gray, they were woven from heavy fibers and animal hairs, and smelled faintly of the musty scent the clung to northern courtyards, where herds gathered in the spring. It was soothing. Next to her, Charmeine’s own sleep space was a tangled knot of blankets, patted down in the center to a rough outline of her body, and Mydaiel could not help but smile, finding is suited her sister nicely.

Charmeine dropped bodily into her nest, wings half extended and gestured to Mydaiel. “Turn, let me see your wings,” she requested.

Mydaiel decided she loved the feeling of hands on her wings, as her sister combed through her feathers, smoothing bent tips and plucking slivers and broken shafts from the earlier scuffle. She winced as Charmeine pulled a particularly sensitive one, but said nothing about it.

“Quite the day,” Charmeine broke the silence as she patted down another ruffled patch of feathers. Mydaiel nodded in agreement. She had one arm curled in her lap and was examining the row of flight feathers dangling from the sleeve. They alternated in order between Sarielle’s and Charmeine’s. Though the white side showed more blatantly, the soft tones of red-pink and ashen gray showed on the alternate sides of the feathers, identifying which had originally belonged to whom. It was a truly selfless gift. “You are finished,” her sister added, her hands pulling away.

Mydaiel carefully folded her wings and twisted to face Charmeine. The woman’s own wings had folded as well, melted down safely along her spine, back beneath the flesh and hidden away for another time. “How do you tuck them in?” Mydaiel inquired, uncertain of how to do the same. The Nephilim did not walk with their wings out all the time, and Mydaiel had never really inquired as to why, but assumed there was a reason to conceal them.

“Leave yours out,” Sarielle cut in as she walked over to join them. “Mydaiel, would you?” she requested as she turned her back to Mydaiel. She rose instantly and unhooked the back button holding Sarielle’s dress closed. It slipped easily off her body and Sarielle shook herself, her tail feathers fluttering as she did. Stooping, she picked up the swath of fabric and folded it over her arm. “Your wings will encourage your desire to hunt, your hunger will grow, but it is worse to call them in and back over again, and I would rather you better adjust to having them out the next few days. I am afraid that it does not matter if you pull them in or not, you will no longer find much comfort laying on your back.”

“You can always feel them then?” Mydaiel inquired. She turned at Sarielle’s gesture and held still as her own dress was undone.

“Always,” Charmeine agreed. “They are who you are now, Mydaiel. I have little doubt you will shine as the gold in your feathers does.”

“Indeed, just as Charmeine’s feathers mime her bloodlust,” Sarielle added. Charmeine grinned, showing her teeth at the quip. “She enjoys toying with her prey.” There was a soft smile on Sarielle’s face, the sort that Mydaiel loved, but seldom got to see. Charmeine was chuckling and made no move to deny the claims. They all knew Charmeine took great pleasure in her role in the hunt.

“Sarielle, I would know more of the hunt,” Mydaiel began hesitantly. “So little is actually discussed with regards to expectation. Does humanity anticipate us on the hunt? Is there great battles to fight or merely frightened beasts to run down?”

Sarielle’s smile wavered, then grew and she brought their foreheads close, her hands cupping Mydaiel’s face. “In time, Mydaiel, I promise,” she vowed. “Now get some rest; it has been a long day and tomorrow you train in arms. This time, you will train with me.” That statement was her final as Sarielle backed away towards her own nest to settle in.

Unsettled by the words, Mydaiel glanced at Charmeine, who merely shook her head and placed her hand on her chest, then tipped the palm towards Mydaiel, as if to wish her a pitiful form of luck. It was not reassuring. Charmeine had nothing further to say, however, and instead shifted on her quilts and tucked herself into a tight ball to seek out slumber. On her opposite side, Sarielle was stretched on her left side, her left wing stretched out behind her, the right tucked up so the feathers draped her arm and side. She had not pulled her wings in either and for a moment, Mydaiel wondered why. It did not truly matter, though, Sarielle’s ways were her own.

Deciding to take her sister’s advice, Mydaiel rolled onto her stomach so her wings could droop to either side, and folded her arms in front of her to rest her chin on the muscle. She was sore and tired and hungry, and knew she could look forward to more of the same in the morning. But for now, it was quiet and the dark beckoned, so she closed her eyes and allowed herself to relax into the embrace of a dreamless sleep.


	4. By the Blade

Mydaiel had decided that while having wings brought a host of wonderful feelings, there were also drawbacks. She’d rolled over in the middle of the night and bent several feathers painfully out of place and it had taken quite a while to smooth them out again when the discomfort had woken her. It also made getting dressed significantly more challenging. Cloaks aside, many of the garments they wore were backless, which made a lot more sense now to Mydaiel, in case wings needed to come through, but dressing with them in the way was a hassle, trying to maneuver around the appendages she had not fully mastered control of yet in order to tie the laces to the bodice she was donning for training.

The breeches had been just as bad, and even as she walked, she tried to shift her hips so her tail feathers would not feel quite so crushed beneath the waistline. She would have hours worth of pruning ahead of her to sort herself out again; not out of vanity, but necessity. Feathers crucial for flight and movement needed to be properly preened to be effective. Despite the awkward training garbs, Mydaiel found herself eager for the morning. They had trained, as hatchlings, with wooden poles and practiced footwork, but she had yet to hold a true blade, and there were many variants to choose from.

The halls were desolate, but it was early still; dawn had yet to crest the horizon and the world beyond the halls was coated in a soft, pale gray light that lingered from the quiet shades of twilight and midnight. Mydaiel was not entirely alone, a few lurked the halls as she did. Scholars often ducked by, arms laden with tomes and text, or papyrus scrolls sealed with wax ribbons. Their hoods were always drawn and they skirted her as they passed, stepping lightly and quickly to produce minimal disruption. Truly, she quietly admired them and the way they dutifully kept record of every event on Earth and Avalon alike that was known to them. The texts, the few times she’d the chance to peek, had favored neither side, instead stating fact and figures alone, for record keeping should be free of opinion to remain pure. They were closer to the core, the heads among them even more so than the priests that lead the Nephilim warriors. Though their feathers were stunted and they’d never grow wings, she never understood why they behaved as though beneath the brother and sisterhoods. Perhaps it was merely an acknowledgement of differences, for they depended upon each other, and scholars were separate of emotion and worldly ties, often lurking in silence, observing rather than interacting.

A hushed giggle rose through the hall, redirecting Mydaiel’s attention. Despite apparent efforts to keep the noise reduced, it near thundered in the silent hallway, and as she rounded the corner, she pulled up short to avoid bumping into a small cluster of fledglings. Her arrival silenced them, and eyes grew rounded and focused blatantly on the wings tucked against her back, the tips which rose above her shoulders. Two of the trio were still quite young, with rounded faces and owl eyes. One, a dark brunette with darker skin laced in ivory veins, pulled his cloak a little tighter to his form and stepped back. Beside him, another youth with hair like flames, glistening wisps of red-gold, feebly stood her ground. Her nose wrinkled slightly, scrunching the freckles that peppered skin otherwise white enough to appear frozen.

At the head, stood a fledgling Mydaiel knew well, who was not so much younger than herself. Tight black curls bobbed as the girl cocked her head and bit her lip as if it would successfully tame the grin trying to pull at her mouth.

Mydaiel frowned and shifted her weight. She ought to be going or she would be tardy to the fields, but emotion clutching at her heart kept her rooted as a tree where she was. It was frowned upon for fledglings to interact socially with the Nephilim. Only in studious form with priests, scholars, and their clutch heads were they even permitted to speak. She should walk away, but perhaps here, in the early morning with few around, she could smuggle a greeting to a good friend she’d spent a fair bit of time with in her youth. The bond had not faded nor dulled in the weeks since she’d been separated from the other fledglings to complete her transition.

“Kara,” she murmured so softly she doubted the other girl would hear.

The worry was inaccurate, as Kara lost the battle with her smile and it spread wide. “Mydaiel,” she beamed back, stretching her spine a little straighter. “It is good to see you. Looks good,” she praised, jerking her chin.

Mydaiel’s wings shuffled on her back in response. “Your time will come swiftly. A few years will pass swiftly enough.”

Kara shook her head and snorted rather unbecomingly. “It would, but Leader Sergil is going to hold me back, I know.”

“You push back too much,” Mydaiel agreed before glancing over at the other two, barely hatchlings, really, who were still cowering behind Kara. “Do not allow this one to influence you.” Silence stretched after her words as neither of the two found the courage to speak. She did not blame them for it.

“You are heading to the fields?” Kara inquired. “We were hoping to sneak to the sidelines to watch. Your sisters are there, right? I thought I saw them walk by.”

Mydaiel nodded. “Yes. They are waiting for me.”

Kara winced and boldly reached to pat Mydaiel on the arm. “I do not envy you. May it end swiftly.”

It was a taunt at her abilities and a retort hung heavily on Mydaiel’s tongue, but before she could utter the protest, a heavy cough made her spin, feathers ruffling to reveal the noise had startled her. An elder stood at the end of the hall, eyes narrowed at the small cluster. She was a scholar and ancient, by the soft wrinkles of her flesh and silver strips in her hair. Her hood was down, which Mydaiel rarely saw, but now wished was in its proper place, for the displeasure in her amber eyes chilled Mydaiel’s core.

The brunt of her annoyance seemed directed at the fledglings, the younger two cowering at the sight of her. Even Kara had the wisdom to step back and lower her head. “Lingering in the halls is unacceptable,” she spoke simply, in a raspy, underused voice. “Be off with you three else there be consequences.”

Nothing further needed to be said and the three scrambled off. Kara, despite her hot headed, stubborn behavior, was no fool and knew wisely this was a time to quietly retreat. Mydaiel shook off the prickling thorn of annoyance jabbing at her at having the conversation interrupted and took a step to continue towards the fields. She was annoyed, but the crueler barb was that of burning shame at getting caught; her first day full fledged was hardly one to go breaking rules.

“Nephilim,” the rasping voice drew her back, turning slightly to once more face the elder. “Fledglings have their place and you your duties,” she reminded. Mydaiel dipped her head in respect. There was no argument to the statement, for it was correct. Despite her closeness with her youthful friend, it was time to cast off childhood bonds in favor of the responsibilities of adulthood.

As she neared the heavy oak doors that led out to the fields, Mydaiel could hear the mock battle cries and grating sounds of blades crashing together as Nephilim got a jump on their swordplay. It was always like this, she presumed, in the days leading up to the hunt. Charmeine and Sarielle would often return at the end of the day weary and sweaty, but Mydaiel had often looked on in awe as they walked past to bathe and eat. She’d admired and envied her elder siblings in her youth, wanting desperately to join them. Now, facing the opportunity down, she felt nothing but a tangled knot of nerves in her gut; Sarielle was an intense warrior, and the implications of facing her were not lost on Mydaiel, who’s lack of experience was now glaringly obvious as she pushed her way outside.

The sun was beginning to rise, casting a brilliant golden glow over the courtyard, reflecting off various blades and causing Mydaiel to squint. She blinked rapidly and shielded her eyes as she adjusted, scanning the courtyard in the process. Several of the sparing rings were already taken with her brethren locked in ferocious combat.

Mydaiel easily picked out Charmeine on the field. Though her sister was small, she was impossible to miss, flitting about the packed dirt like a vengeful fairy. She spun a long glaive with thin, wickedly curved blades on either ends of a pole longer than she was. Her partner in combat was a larger male Mydaiel did not know, but he was losing ground rapidly against her sister’s brutal onslaught. Though she should find Sarielle, she could not help but linger to watch Charmeine’s haunting beauty on the battlefield. She wore a twisted grin as she beat down on the man’s broadsword. Charmeine twisted in an impressive show of flexibility, her glaive sweeping out to knock her opponent into the dust. She pressed the curve of the blade near his throat, then spun it away and offered a hand to help him up. He said something to her Mydaiel did not catch, but her sister already seemed to be looking away in search of her next victim. After bearing witness to the sparring match and being on the receiving end of Charmeine’s abilities last night, she almost pitied the humans on Charmeine’s list for the hunt. Her sister was near legendary with her warped sense of enjoyment on the hunt. She toyed with her prey for the simple pleasure of it, and were she not one of the sweetest and silliest Nephilim Mydaiel knew, it would be horrifying to get close to her.

“Mydaiel,” Sarielle’s voice was tense, for once not with displeasure, and Mydaiel spun around to face the eldest, who had three fingers to her lips, suppressing a chuckle. “Why are you wearing scholar breeches?”

At first, Mydaiel was confused by the statement, until she noticed the way Sarielle’s own dipped in the back to allow her tail feathers to flow freely, and embarrassment began to prickle her cheeks and burn the tips of her ears. Scholars had no need for flight, their feathers were small and stunted, and there was no need for special dips and cuts in fabrics to free them. She had been a fool in grabbing garments for the morning.

“I did not know,” Mydaiel muttered softly, earning her an exaggerated eye roll from Sarielle.

“Turn, you cannot effectively move like that, let us see what we can do.”

Obeying the command, Mydaiel turned to face the courtyard again, her gaze finding Charmeine again, observing as her sister clashed with another female with a long spear. They were careful with their blows to prevent true injury, but impressive scratches were sometimes opened, and it seemed that both had nicked the other, from the ruby fluid dripping down Charmeine’s calf and spilling into the other’s eyes and down her wrist. They were frenzied, dancing around one another like starved animals circling a kill.

As Mydaiel watched, she stood perfectly still and felt Sarielle pressed against her as she deftly wielded a dagger and began to slit the fabric. Mydaiel winced as her feathers were pulled, then practically sighed with relief as they fell free and Sarielle’s fingers smoothed them back out. “Thank you,” she murmured as she shifted her hips to determine if the tears would affect the fit, but the breeches remained firmly in place. Turning to face her sister, Mydaiel dipped her head, eager to begin but nervous to ask.

“You need a weapon,” Sarielle prompted when the silence continued to stretch. “Come.”

Sarielle spun on her heel and strode towards a long, single story shed at the far end of the training fields. Mydaiel took a deep breath, then began to follow her along the dusty side of the courtyard, sidestepping out of the way of a pair of warriors as they flung themselves too far to the right, nearly knocking into her. As she walked, she wriggled her hips once more, trying to shift her crumpled tail feathers back into a proper position. She winced as she did so; there was definitely a bent shaft that would need tending too, if it did not break on the field as she had the suspicion it might. Charmeine had not held back yesterday, and Sarielle was a very to the point instructor; Mydaiel had a feeling that she was going to leave the fields far more battered than she had gone to sleep last night.

The long shed proved to be an effective barracks, lined with many expertly crafted weapons sorted based on size and class. Mydaiel paused, raising her fingers to trail over the grooves of a toothed spear tip. She had some basic training in wielding weapons of varying weights and lengths, but rarely did fledglings engage in combat with forged blades, rather dulled, dented steel or heavy wood to learn their balance and strength. To be this close to true blades was breathtaking and she found herself lingering longer than she meant to.

“Mydaiel,” Sarielle drew her attention away from the spear; her sister’s voice calm as she blinked knowingly. “The choice of blade to wield is yours alone, but if you value my advice, you are ill suited to a spear. You have a lot of strength and raw talent better suited to something less crude, more sturdy.”

Mydaiel dipped her head and stepped away from the wall of long poles tipped with sharpened teeth; she did not truly wish to wield a spear and was merely admiring it. She allowed her gaze to wander as she followed after her sister. There were several spears and other long, staff weapons, a few axes or other brutal looking hunks of metal, maces and clubs that looked larger than her arm; she doubted she could lift one if she tried, suspected she was not meant to.

They then hit the section for swords, rows and rows of them, from broadswords to blades so thin Mydaiel wondered how they did not shatter at the first strike. “What do you wield?” Mydaiel found herself asking as she traced a nail over lightning bolt etchings on a thick sickle curved sword. “How am I meant to choose; there are so many here.”

Sarielle’s warmth pressed against her as her sister came from behind. Her arms draped over Mydaiel’s shoulders and she pressed her lips to her skull, just above Mydaiel’s ear. “I use a sword; a longer, thinner short sword with a wave pattern to the blade,” she murmured. “I call it Mauta Aoybn.”

“Death from Above,” Mydaiel murmured with a nod; it suited her sister. “What does Charmeine call her glaive?”

“Something crude,” Sarielle responded. “Spare your mind a little longer.”

Mydaiel could not help but snort at the notion. She shook her head and turned her attention back to the wall of options before her.

“You will know,” Sarielle added after a moment, stepping away to allow Mydaiel room to peruse. “It may take a little trial and error sometimes, but usually you know.”

Mydaiel took a deep breath and allowed the tension to evaporate from her body as she continued down the rows, her gaze wandering. At first, nothing drew her eye much, each blade was gorgeous, but did not quite feel right for her.

Gradually, as she neared the end of the racks, the blades shortened away from swords into daggers and sai, and Mydaiel began to lose heart and consider perhaps she was being too choosy and should return to test some of the longer blades. After all, these were rarely fit as primary weapons, more often a side knife, kept at the belt for emergency situations.

She turned her head away to head back when she caught sight of something appealing. Crouching down for a better look, she silently examined a pair of twin sai placed delicately on a hook. The handle was black, shimmered like crushed onyx, and wrapped at the grip with a dark, aged leather, and there was a shimmering opal set the tip of each hilt. The blades themselves were narrow, sharpened to a deadly point, and the metal was cured a blood red near the hilt, fading to a rosy pink that gave way to brilliant silver a third of the way down. They were as long as her forearm, and the outer prongs were tiny and barbed, deep red and meant for ripping flesh should the blade be stabbed far enough.

Mydaiel held her breath as she reached out and plucked one off its hook. The weight felt right in her hand, balanced and fluid, and she found the leather providing a proper grip; they were exquisite.

“Find something you like?” Sarielle inquired as she joined Mydaiel in a crouched position and reached out to pick up the other sai. “These are very nice,” she agreed with a slight strangle in her voice.

At the sound, Mydaiel’s head lifted away from the blade to examine her sister’s face, where worry lines had creased her brows and the tendon in her neck had tightened. “Is something wrong?”

Sarielle shook her head, the midnight locks she had pulled into a high tail waving over her shoulder as she did. “Of course not, they are finely crafted and the choice is yours,” she responded. With a flick of her wrist, Sarielle flipped the sai so she was gripping the blade, holding out the hilt towards Mydaiel, who hesitated before taking it. “I would prefer you with a sword, something longer, puts you at a safer distance…you wish to go back to the spear?”

Mydaiel’s shoulders dipped at her sister’s disapproval, but she shook her head; these were what she wanted.

Sarielle’s hand fell on her shoulder and she found herself being spun to face her. “Mydaiel, you have my support, I only inquire if you are certain. These are a very personal weapon. Your kills will be very short range. Sometimes distance can be your ally.”

“It should be personal,” Mydaiel whispered back as she rubbed a thumb over a blade. She made no move to elaborate, unsure if her sister would understand. She was eager to take her place in the hunt, to fulfill her duties to Avalon, but ending a life was a heavy affair in a world where natural life was viewed with utmost respect. Humans may not be overly natural, but they still breathed and pumped blood from heart to flesh the way she did. She would kill them, but not lightly; lest she become no better than the poisonous beasts of Earth themselves.

To Mydaiel’s surprise, Sarielle dipped her head, acknowledging the words. “That is a good moral to have; a lesson that is hard to teach and even more so to remember in difficult moments; I believe the dual sai will suit you nicely. Are you prepared to test them?”

“Yes,” Mydaiel agreed. She set the sai aside long enough to pick up the sheath. A long, thin belt with a thin sheath on either side to flank her hips. Rising, she buckled it easily around her waist beneath her feathers where it would not chafe, and then slid the twin blades into place. Her hands found a place resting comfortably atop the hilts. Though she had been nervous about facing off against her sister, and still was, an eager readiness was latching hold of her confidence like a tidal wave and there was no hesitation as she strode back out into the rising sunlight after Sarielle.

Her sister paused at a bench just outside, where a Nephilim of the brotherhood was perched, arms folded as he watched over the proceedings. He glanced their way with an eerie yellow gaze, irises like molten gold to match his hair and ivory flesh. He grunted in acknowledgement as Sarielle plucked up the sheathed sword leaned at his side.

“My appreciations for watching over this,” she said with a dip of her head. Mydaiel waited patiently as her sister secured her weapon to her waist and strode out onto one of the empty spaces of the courtyard; it was hard not to admire the confidence that Sarielle moved with at all times, especially when she had the skill to back it up.

With a shake of her head, Mydaiel hurried to catch up to where her sister was waiting, already crouched into a fighting stance, though she had yet to draw her sword. Despite earlier bravado, a thorn of nerves wedged into her side as she found herself standing opposite her sister, who was grinning at her.

“This is about training, Mydaiel, but do not expect that to mean this battle will be light. Draw your sai and get acquainted with them.”

The blades slid easily from their sheathes, the metal singing as it rubbed against the thick casing designed to help sharpen them and Mydaiel took a moment to spin them through her fingers, adjusting to the weight and feel of them. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Sarielle draw Mauta Aoybn and was surprised at the vivid glint the blade gave off. The alloy was warped into thick, tight waves and was polished to reflect like a mirror and the blade was roughly the length of Sarielle’s arm, if not slightly longer, with a blood ruby nestled center in the metal near the hilt. It was a far flashier sword than Mydaiel would have expected her very practical and duty-bound sister to have gone for, but was very beautiful and complimented her properly.

Sarielle flipped the sword in her grip a few times before bringing it up, her legs bending in preparation. Mydaiel took a breath, closed her eyes for a moment and simply held, before opening them again on the exhale and putting one foot behind her for better balance. She had never trained before with dual weapons, but she suspected she was going to crash course the lesson and when her gaze met Sarielle’s, she received little more than a blink of acknowledgement, a rapid warning before her sister was on her, moving fast enough that the wind whistled sharply as her sword swung through the air.

Mydaiel just barely brought a sai up in time to defend herself. The sword caught between the forks of her knife and the two crashed together with a deafening screech as the force behind Sarielle’s strike drove Mydaiel to a knee. She grit her teeth as her jaw clacked and fought to push back as her sister bore down on her; Sarielle was both relentless and impossibly strong, with both hands on the hilt for better control. It took Mydaiel a moment to remember she had a free hand, so while one arm shook with the effort of keeping Sarielle’s blade from hacking at her, she flipped the free sai in her hand so the handle pointed out, and jabbed at her sister’s exposed side, driving the hilt against her hip.

Sarielle grunted and leapt backwards, giving Mydaiel barely a moment to stand and grab a breath before they were locked again. This time, instead of winding up in the dirt, Mydaiel acted on instinct and crossed her blades so Mauta Aoybn slid harmlessly sideways and she could shove back against her sister, taking a quick swipe on the pass, but Sarielle was already bending backwards to avoid the blow. As she moved, a leg swept out and knocked Mydaiel’s feet out from under her.

Having not expected the sudden loss of balance, Mydaiel yelped as she crashed back into the dust, but there was no time to recover before the sword was arching down at her again. Throwing her weight back, Mydaiel forced her body into an awkward roll and pushed herself back upright in time to catch the blade again. Her breath was panting from a heaving chest and she pushed away to have a moment to wipe sweat from her brow. Across from her, Sarielle looked as if she could continue at this pace the rest of the day, with even breathing and a hardened look.

She had also moved a few steps back, so they were now out of reach of one another and Mydaiel hesitated as her next move. Sarielle far outclassed her and despite the power behind the blows, she knew her sister was holding back; had she been a true target, her life would be ebbing away with her blood by now, and she was not sure how to counter that.

Sarielle did not give her time to figure it out before she was charging forward again. In a rash decision, Mydaiel dove into a roll beneath Sarielle’s blade and came up as quickly as she could, using some of the lingering momentum to swing into a kick to Sarielle’s wings, having learned yesterday what a correctly aimed blow could do. She was not certain why her sister had not pulled hers in last night, but she was going to take advantage whilst she could.

The hit was effective, as Sarielle gasped and her wings fluttered against the blow, nearly pitching her off balance. The glory was short lived, however as Sarielle then came spinning back around, her arm moving so fast that the flat of her blade made contact, crashing against Mydaiel’s shoulder, knocking her sideways.

Her skin split against the force and she grit her teeth as the blood began to flow, using one sai to force the sword away while she jabbed forward with the other, hoping to drive Sarielle into a retreat. Sarielle merely caught the blade in her free hand, having switched to wielding Mauta Aoybn with just one. Though the sai had to have cut into her palm, she gripped it easily and grinned down at Mydaiel. “Come now, little sister; impress me,” she whispered, but refused to relinquish the blade when Mydaiel tugged.

Indignation surged in Mydaiel and she bared her teeth angrily, though she wrestled with the inevitable, she did not wish to lose this fight. It was almost easy to give in to instinct and act; her knees bent and her wings opened as she launched herself up, successfully ripping her weapon free from Sarielle’s grasp. She could have flown higher, forced Sarielle to join her, but she knew she stood as much chance in the air as she did on the ground, so instead she crossed the blades again and folded her wings, driving down towards her sister and forcing her to raise her sword in defense. Mydaiel’s wings opened again to keep her aloft as she pressed down, the tips of her feathers whacking against Sarielle’s face and stirring up her hair, and Mydaiel felt immense satisfaction as her strength forced Sarielle to take a knee this time.

Her sister’s grin widened. “Better,” she praised before shoving back up and knocking Mydaiel off balance. There was barely time to land before Sarielle was up again and once again, Mydaiel was dodging a blow at the last moment. Her heart was pounding, her breathing ragged, and her energy was starting to wane, but she grit her teeth and forced herself back into the fight.

It began to feel surreal, automatic as she and Sarielle danced around one another, sparks igniting on a few of the more intense blows exchanged and for a while, Mydaiel held her own, though her arms quaked and she grew gradually more sloppy despite Sarielle appearing as energized as when the fight began. Mydaiel had little left to give, so when Sarielle granted her a slim opening, she took it, knocking Mauta Aoybn away and aiming a stab to the throat, which was meant to pull short at the last moment; Sarielle was not a target.

She was not given the chance as Sarielle caught the blade again and smiled. “Good, Mydaiel,” she praised even as she ended the fight. Mydaiel felt her feet go out from under her again the same moment the hilt of Sarielle’s sword connected with her skull and she crumpled.

Mydaiel’s ears were ringing and the world suddenly felt painfully bright. She squinted as the courtyard spun, shapes blurry. It took a moment for things to come into focus and when they did, she found herself flat on the ground with Sarielle crouched over her. She stared at her sister’s outstretched hand for a moment before her brain caught up with what was happening and she took it. Sarielle yanked her to her feet, her free hand coming up under Mydaiel’s wings to balance her.

“You did well, Mydaiel; I have no doubt you will be a fine match against your prey. Perhaps someday you will even become worthy competition.”

Mydaiel flushed and groaned, bringing a hand to her temple, where a lump was definitely rising and found herself wanting to protest against the hit and whether it was truly necessary. “If bashing skulls is your preferred method, I know why you have named your sword so,” she grumbled, unable to help herself.

Sarielle shook her head and chuckled with amusement. “I call it that because most often, my prey is dead before I have need to land,” she replied, patting Mydaiel on the back. “You took a harder blow than I intended, are you well enough to walk?”

“Just a little dizzy,” Mydaiel admitted, though she forced herself to stand a little straighter, despite how her muscles shook and threatened to collapse beneath her weight. “I will be fine.” As if to spite her, as she made the statement, her legs gave out and she slumped, only for Sarielle’s shoulder to meet her as her sister took her weight.

“It has been a lot,” Sarielle acknowledged. “I think perhaps a chance to clean and tend yourself before resting would do you some good.”

“I can take her,” a new voice offered. Mydaiel glanced up to see another woman approaching. She wore her dark oak hair in a tight braid, eyes like almonds in shape and color sparkling brightly and she held a curved bow in one hand, a quiver of arrows poking out from beneath the dark red cloak tied over her shoulders; she looked familiar, but Mydaiel could not grasp at why.

“That would be appreciated,” Sarielle responded and Mydaiel felt her give her a nudge. With a sigh, Mydaiel forced herself to stand once more, fluttering her wings a little for better balance. Determined to stand on her own, she politely refused the other Nephilim’s offered hand; her first days fully initiated were hardly the time to show off weakness and dependence.

“Leaving so soon?” The taunt was playful, based on Charmeine’s wide grin as she leaned against her glaive, though she did not appear tired, despite having been on the fields at least twice as long as her sisters. “And here I thought we might get a rematch.”

“Leave her be, Charmeine,” Sarielle warned. “You were not much better off your first time.”

Charmeine’s lip jutted out into an exaggerated pout and she rolled her eyes. “True; I suppose Mydaiel does deserve a break; it is my turn.”

“Oh, is that so? I would think you would want to leave today undefeated.”

“I will,” Charmeine retorted as she straightened and pulled her weapon closer. “Have no doubts about that, sister.”

Sarielle pursed her lips and hummed softly. “We shall see.” Mydaiel would have liked to witness more of the amusing banter, but with a nod in her direction, both of her siblings made their way back out onto the fields to decide which would best the other, and Mydaiel was forced to turn her attention to the woman who had offered herself up as a guide.

Her head was still spinning and she had double vision, making her walking pace erratic and unstable, and she started as the other woman slipped an arm under hers, linking their elbows and offering a silent support. “It is okay to need a little assistance; it is not so easy to walk from a blow like that. Try not to let people land too many, hmm?”

Mydaiel nodded and allowed herself to slump a little. She was not ashamed of her defeats, she knew she had little chance of winning and her desire was instead to hold her own well enough to earn approval, but after two grueling sessions so quickly after being initiated; she was exhausted and her hunger was growing more restless, a caged beast deep in her gut snarling and pacing, seeking release to maim and kill.

“It gets easier,” the woman assured her. “Do you remember me, Mydaiel? It has been a long while, I would understand if not.”

Mydaiel glanced over at her escort’s face and pondered, and when the answer did finally hit her, it felt like a physical strike. “Dalna,” she murmured upon realization, and knew she was correct when the easy smile flowed across Dalna’s lips in response. “You are right, it has been a very long time.”

“Fledglings and Nephilim are not meant to interact much, but I often wished it were not so; not when I left good friends behind.”

Mydaiel nodded, knowing exactly how Dalna was feeling; it was the same struggle she was having with Kara; it was not easy to leave a friend behind when often fledglings would feel they only had one another. It tended to create a strong bond that breaking left behind the bitter taste of regret.

Dalna had been a good friend once too, though Mydaiel had been very young at the time and had never known why the older fledgling had bothered with her. When Dalna was initiated, before Mydaiel had properly met Kara, she had felt terribly alone and she had not seen the Nephilim since they had announced she was ready to complete her training. “I am glad to see you again,” she murmured as they walked down a long, dim hall. She had never been to this wing of the compound before and was not certain as to where they were going.

“Are you eager for your first hunt?” Dalna inquired as they walked. Mydaiel had begun to regain some of her strength and the dizziness faded now that she had the chance to get her breath back, so she straightened up off Dalna’s shoulder, though still stuck close to her old friend.

“Yes,” she replied. “It has been a lot the past few days, I feel as though caught in a twister, but I am eager for the chance and also a little nervous; I have not been told much of what to expect.”

Dalna squeezed her shoulder and Mydaiel fixated further attention on her, hoping that Dalna might finally be the one to answer some of her questions. Instead, Dalna merely shook her head. “Have faith, Mydaiel; when the time comes, you will know all you need to.”

Mydaiel sighed, hating the confusing and seemingly pointless way the other Nephilim were being so cryptic about the hunt; especially now that she was to join them.

Dalna stepped ahead and pushed open a rather heavy looking marble door, beyond which lay a dark corridor. No light seeped in from outside, nor from the lamps often lit within the building at night.

Mydaiel hesitated for a moment before curiosity got the better of her and she made her way inside. “What is this place?” she inquired as Dalna followed her in and the door shut noisily behind them, plunging the two into near complete darkness; even with their enhanced vision it was difficult to see.

Mydaiel placed a hand on a rough stone wall; it had not been smoothed like many of the slabs used for constructing their home and she almost enjoyed the way it scraped against her skin. There was moisture clinging to the walls as well, she could feel the residue as her hands brushed over and her bare feet threatened to slide on the slick floors.

“What is this place?” Mydaiel asked. Though she whispered, her voice echoed in the room and Dalna offered no answer. Squinting, Mydaiel could make out a faint glow ahead and as she rounded the bend in the hall, she got her answer as the space went from a narrow walkway into a large chamber. Mydaiel’s eyes widened at the sight before her. The room was a cave, with a large water basin lapping gently at the edges of the natural carving of the pool and the soft glow was emanating from clusters of crystals growing from the walls and roof. They bathed the room in a rainbow of glittering blues, greens, and reds, with purple and icy blue-white pulsing beneath the water from ones growing up from the depths. She inhaled the tangy scent of salt and stone, closing her eyes with a sigh; it felt peaceful here, in the dark silence.

“This is one of Avalon’s rewards,” Dalna murmured as she stepped up and, without prompting or request, easily unlaced the tied at the back of Mydaiel’s training shift. The fabric slid sideways on Mydaiel’s shoulders and she shuffled her wings until the garment slipped off to the floor. After making certain the sai were properly secure in their sheathes, she removed the belt and tugged down the tight breeches that had been crushing her feathers earlier. Now that there was no longer a need to battle, she twisted to examine the stem she had felt bed and crack earlier.

As she had suspected, it had snapped and was dangling uselessly, radiating painful static at every prod. She grit her teeth in a tight grimace; it was her own fault, really, but the shaft would need to be plucked and tail feathers were a pain to yank. She twisted her arm in an attempt to catch it as close to the flesh as she could when Dalna caught her by the wrist.

“Do not pull it, Mydaiel, there is no need to cause yourself unnecessary pain.”

“It has to come out,” Mydaiel argued, her brow furrowing at the odd request.

Dalna shook her head and sighed, placing her hands on Mydaiel’s shoulders. Though there was no malice behind the grip, it was firm and ironclad. “Turn; there is an easier way with tail feathers; no one has ever taught you?”

Mydaiel shrugged as she complied with the command. “I have broken a tail feather only once before; as a child and I felt no need to complain about it, I removed it the moment I was alone.”

“It must have been painful to do and bled a lot; tail feathers cling to their vessels when they break,” Dalna responded. Mydaiel could feel her fingers delicately tracing the feather up to the break and then beyond. “You are lucky, the break is very close to the top, there is no need for a fresh one. This will pinch a bit.”

“Pain is a message,” Mydaiel echoed, reciting from youth. They were all taught as fledglings to accept pain for what it was, the body’s advice, warnings; it was necessary and they must be resilient to it. She took a breath as Dalna’s fingers closed more firmly over the broken feather shaft and heard the sharp resounding crack as she broke it the rest of the way. There was barely a twinge as it came away, but the tip still buried in her flesh itched like a burdensome thorn and her fingers twitched with the desire to rip it free.

Dalna rose and moved to her side, offering the remnants of the long feather. Mydaiel took it gently and ran a fingernail over the fronds. It was long and narrow, but grew to a rounded bulge at the end in a brilliant silver plume with a dark eye in the middle. “Your flesh will detach and purge the tip itself, there is no need to cause yourself unnecessary grief ripping it free, no matter how resilient to pain we are meant to be.”

Mydaiel cocked her head at the strangle in Dalna’s voice and found her brows furrowed and a somber smile creasing her lips. Mydaiel chewed on her lip, hesitating to ask the question scalding her tongue.

Dalna sighed and shrugged as she began twisting free the elaborate knot on her cloak, allowing it to flutter to the ground to reveal a backless white gown that tied around her neck. Mydaiel moved behind her to return the favor and tug on the laces holding it in place. “I have the utmost respect, Mydaiel, for who we are and what we stand for, remember that. I do not, however, condone many of the means and lessons they taught us as fledglings; the elders are wrong about many things.”

Mydaiel’s fingers slipped at the statement and a rather embarrassing croak died in her throat. She forced shaking hands to steady so she could finish her task, but her mind was reeling from the statement Dalna had just made; to question the elders and their teachings was to question their entire society, themselves and their purpose as a whole. The elders upheld the customs and lessons the Nephilim needed to be the warriors Avalon required; without that, they were nothing. Mydaiel shuddered and shook her head as she stepped back to allow Dalna’s gown to slip free; they could not be wrong, no matter what her old friend seemed to think. How long had she been festering on treasonous thoughts.

As if sensing the sudden unease, Dalna turned and raised her hands to cup Mydaiel’s face, her gaze stern. “Speak of this to no one, Mydaiel; it is not yet for open ears, but not everyone follows blindly what we are taught. I have come to question many things and while I will never falter to do what Avalon needs of me, I have my own identity and reasons for action and so should you. You will understand after you hunt; it changes you and it is important you remember to ask yourself why you fight, why you slay, and if the answer is because you are told to, then you do not truly have purpose; you are a slave.” At the end of the whispered speech, Dalna gave her a soft smile and stepped back, turning towards the water. Her muscles rippled as she stepped to the edge and fell back into its grasp.

Mydaiel winced before reluctantly following, putting the words aside to consider later. She did not think that she would much enjoy bathing in the pool, she hated getting her feathers wet; they clumped and knotted and took extra time and care to sort that she did not have the energy for today, but this was clearly the reason for coming, so she stepped into the basin and sunk nearly to her waist.

The water was different than rain or wash water, she realized immediately; it hugged at her feathers and gently pulled at the grit caught the ruffled downy plumage. The feeling was pleasant more so than an annoyance and she trailed her fingers through the ripples along the surface. Though she had originally opened her wings and angled them up to avoid soaking them, she now dipped one forward and trailed the tip through the warm liquid.

“Submerge,” Dalna suggested.

Mydaiel eyed her wearily, still not certain if she should trust the woman or turn tail and have nothing more to do with her, but Sarielle would not have sent her after the archer had she not had some trust in her, so Mydaiel held her next breath within her chest and bent her legs. Her weight dropped out from under her and she sunk into the pool. Her eyes squinted as she watched the crystals glow and pulse in the dark. She would have expected the salt and grit in the water to irritate her eyes, but it did not sting or bother at all. She cocked her head, wings spreading to full length, lightly beating the water to keep herself upright as she listened to a faint musical hum. Angling her body, she swam to the bottom and pressed a hand flat against the rock only to discover it truly was vibrating and though there was no lyric or tune to mimic, the melody sang straight to her heart and she understood what Dalna had meant. This was one of Avalon’s rewards; her strength felt revitalized and here, she could hear the world, the core of Avalon calling to her. She wanted to get closer, but she would need to breathe again soon.

As she reluctantly turned away from the depths and kicked back towards the surface, Mydaiel decided that despite the water and potential hours of pruning, she would make the sacrifice eagerly; this was her favorite place in the whole of the city. 


	5. The Hunt

Mydaiel took a deep breath and held it for a few moments, trying to quell the frantic thudding of her heart against her ribs. She shifted her weight and pulled her wings tighter to her back before slowly releasing the air she had been holding in. The past few days and nights had been grueling, filled with training and tactic as Sarielle pumped as much of the required skill set into her as she could. Mydaiel had endured until her legs shook and her hands could barely keep hold of her sai, and it was all leading up to this night; the Nephilim were gathering for the hunt. All around her, warriors were preparing, sharpening blades on whetstones or adjusting battle garbs. Some were clustered together, hands on hilts or wrapped around the stems of expertly crafted bows, speaking in hushed tones about the upcoming night, while others stood alone miming still and silent statues. 

Charmeine stood beside her, cradling her glaive across one arm like a fragile infant rather than the massive, deadly weapon it was. One curved blade arced high above her head and glinted in the lamplight illuminating the room. Her sister’s head turned and her lips split to a pearly grin, eyes shining with an eager glint that sent a rippling chill down Mydaiel’s spine. Suddenly, she could see her sister on her perception of Earth, illuminated in the glow of demon-light, hair wild and gaze primal, a predator hunched bloodied over her prey. Charmeine flared her wings, the tip of her outermost flight feathers sliding harmlessly over Mydaiel’s jaw, and for a moment, she could see were the bloodstained hues before Charmeine resettled them against her back. “Are you ready, Mydaiel? I have grown restless awaiting the chance again to fly into the night and feast on the blood of plague.”

“I am still not certain what I am meant to do,” Mydaiel admitted as she choked once again on the bitter bile of confusion and frustration; she wanted to be forewarned and yet she was ignorant as ever as the hunt loomed. 

Charmeine stepped closer, swapping her weapon to the other arm so she could place her palm flat on the back of Mydaiel’s skull and pull their foreheads together. “Be calm, little sister; I understand your frustrations and once I knew them as well as you do now, but no one can warn you what the hunt will be like, for your hunt is yours alone. We are each of us unique in our methods and you must be left to find your own this night, but do not allow concern or despair to distract you, you will not be alone. Every Nephilim huntress is accompanied by a warrior, a guard, and Sarielle will oversee you this once as well, you will be fine. Trust your instincts, Mydaiel; you are one of us.”

Mydaiel hummed at her sister’s words, the sound resonating in the back of her throat. She took a breath and forced the tension to leave her body and make room for a tranquil calm. It was not the answer she had been hoping for, but she accepted it for what it was; another test. 

Charmeine pulled away and gave her a small nod. “You will be fine,” she assured her before her attention was redirected towards another Nephilim who had approached and pulled her aside to murmur something quietly. Mydaiel watched curiously, unable to hear what was being said, but observing her sister occasionally nod her head, her brow furrowing or lips twitching into a grin at different points. 

Finally, Mydaiel turned away and scanned the crowded room for Sarielle. Not all the Nephilim would fly tonight, there were too many of them, and each slaughter was carefully controlled to keep discretion; humans were more open to impossible possibilities when they were suspicious and they would be, if too many went missing too often or there were enough sightings not to be written off. She shuffled her wings in response to the building anticipation that was beginning to pulse through the hall. The Nephilim were preparing for flight and Mydaiel was eager to stretch her wings. 

She twisted at the hand laid on her shoulder to stare into Sarielle’s calm face. Her sister’s raven hair was tightly woven into a braid that doubled back on itself against her skull; carefully pinned into place to keep any strays out of her dark gray eyes. Her sword hung at her belt and Sarielle had her free hand resting on the hilt. “Are you ready for tonight, Mydaiel?” she inquired. The hand on Mydaiel’s shoulder lifted to brush a stray wisp of hair back behind her ear. “You have excelled in training these past few days. I have no doubts you will do Avalon proud. I am eager to fly with you, sister.”

Mydaiel leaned into her sister’s touch and nodded. She was eager too. “I look forward to it, but Sarielle; I truly wish I was not so blind to what will come.”

Sarielle sighed and took hold of Mydaiel’s shoulders, squeezing lightly. “Your curiosity is insatiable, Mydaiel. Ever since you were a child, so many questions. Peace, sister – have I ever once sent you unprepared into anything expected of you?”

“No,” Mydaiel murmured. She scuffed a foot along the floor and chewed her lip as she resisted the urge to lower her gaze like a scolded child.

Sarielle’s smile was gentle as she raised a hand, palm up, between them. Mydaiel hesitated for a moment before placing her hand in Sarielle’s. Her older sister gently squeezed her fingers and met her gaze. “Then I ask that you trust me now. Follow my lead; all will be revealed soon.”

“I tried to tell her that,” Charmeine added. Mydaiel glanced over to see her middle sibling approach holding two copper chalices. She offered them both to Sarielle and shrugged helplessly, her wings bobbing behind her. “You will fly with the flock and spill blood this eve, Mydaiel. What more is there to know?”

Mydaiel blushed and looked away. Though Charmeine’s tone was light, Mydaiel could not help but feel mocked. She was not certain herself why she needed to know so badly, but the questions still burned at her like flames to dry tinder.

“They are ready now,” Charmeine added to Sarielle. “Good luck, Mydaiel. You have waited a long time for this moment; bask in it.”

Mydaiel watched Charmeine turn and slip back into the crowd before returning her attention to Sarielle, who was holding one of the chalices out to her. “Drink,” she instructed. “It is time.”

Mydaiel accepted the goblet and glanced down to find the same brew she had sampled a few nights prior. Bracing herself for a similar reaction, Mydaiel tipped the cup back and drained it in a single gulp. The rush of power and cravings hit her head on, but other than a gasp and some staggered footsteps, Mydaiel was able to keep herself under control. She glanced up to see Sarielle grinning savagely at her. Her sister’s pearly teeth were stained dark red with the beverage and her eyes flashed with a glowing red-gold hue. The sight was disturbing on Sarielle, who was usually very stoic. The wild, predatory look in Sarielle’s gaze was something she might expect to see from Charmeine, but less so from her clutch leader.

Sarielle jerked her head to where the other Nephilim were beginning to filter out of the hall into a courtyard. Falling in step, Mydaiel kept pace with her sister as they walked. The courtyard was grassy, with simple cobblestone pathways rimming the square shaped yard. The center of each side has a path branching off to the center, where it curved around a massive circular gap in the side of the cliff. While Mydaiel could look beyond the high pillars of the courtyard and see a tall mountain range and the starry night sky, a glimpse through the drop showed heavy cloud cover. The barrier between Earth and Avalon. She wondered if it was always open, or how it looked when there was no ongoing hunt. 

The Nephilim were walking up the paths and dropping down through the gap. Excited howls and war cries rose in the air as the Nephilim hunters began the plummet towards Earth. There was probably about fifty or sixty of her people were going on this hunt. Soon, Mydaiel found herself on the precipice of the drop-off with Sarielle by her side. Her sister grinned at her and reached out to capture Mydaiel’s hand within her own. “Ready?”

Mydaiel swallowed, her heart beating loudly, blood droning in her ears to the point where she barely heard Sarielle. But she set her jaw and nodded. It was time and she was ready. When Sarielle pitched forward, Mydaiel followed her, leaning into open air and then freefalling through a thick, moist veil of clouds. She couldn’t see anything aside from the white fluff as they plummeted down.

Then they hit the barrier.

It slowed their descent, like pushing through syrup, and Mydaiel winced at the sudden resistance. It was over in a heartbeat with a loud popping noise in her ears before they were falling again, this time through open sky. Below her, thousands of lights glittered from massive skyscrapers and roads filled with noisy, honking cars. It was the first time Mydaiel had seen the things she had read about. She choked as she inhaled smog filled air, her eyes beginning to water at the impure environment. Shaking her head to clear it, Mydaiel grit her teeth and opened her wings, allowing the sails to fill and slow her descent. All around her, various Nephilim were doing the same.

Many of them broke rank, angling away on high altitude air currents and zipping off out of sight. Mydaiel slowed and began to tread air, working her wings furiously as she swivelled around. “Where are we?” she called over the noise, glancing over to where her sister kept pace with her. She was only vaguely familiar with human geography and while their location did not truly matter – she wanted to know where her first hunt would take place. Of course, the Nephilim could fly fast enough to travel to other parts of a continent in the night, but the entirety of the globe was too much of a stretch. They would not cross oceans due to the risk.

“The barrier has let out over Europe,” Sarielle replied as she swam closer through the air. The steady beat of her wings was like a heart ringing in Mydaiel’s ears. “I believe we are over London. Why does it concern you?”

Mydaiel shook her head. “It does not. This is my first hunt; I merely wished to know where it was taking place.” She glanced back down at the twinkling lights below and worked her wings hard. She was aware of her sister, as well as the Nephilim brother hovering a few feet above them both. Everyone else had taken off in all directions so the skies around them were desolate. Mydaiel hesitated – she still did not know where she was supposed to go or what exactly she was supposed to do. She glanced at Sarielle and silently hoped her elder sibling would answer her this time. “What am I supposed to do? How do I know which to slay?”

Sarielle shifted one wing so the next downstroke brought her closer and she gripped Mydaiel by the chin. “Fly, Mydaiel. Descend to Earth like the force you are. You will know what to do, just as you knew with your blades. It is in you to know,” Sarielle replied. Then her face warped to one of concern. “But we must not linger here, Mydaiel. We have a mission to accomplish and it is not safe to remain idle and exposed.”

Mydaiel cocked her head at Sarielle’s statement. They were high enough up that they would not be seen; she could fathom what sort of danger they could possibly be in. 

There was a loud whistling ringing in her ears, a mix of roaring wind and a sound akin to someone dragging a sword against rough stone. Mydaiel winced. The noise grew louder, morphing into a deafening roar.

“Mydaiel, move!” Sarielle shouted over the sound. Mydaiel twisted to look at her sister just in time for Sarielle to plant her boots against Mydaiel’s chest and shove her into a backwards flip through the air. Mydaiel watched in horror as her sister bring her sword up to deflect a swinging blow of a thick, bristle-haired arm sporting wicked talons that looked about as long as her forearm. The rest of the beast was a hairy shadow with pulsing red eyes and a maw with yellowed fangs jutting past thin lips and neon trails of drool. The edges of the monster were hazy coils of smoke, and the stench like a thousand rotten corpses made Mydaiel’s nose wrinkle.

Sarielle managed to shove the beast back, despite it being three times her size. Two of the Nephilim brothers descended on it then, stabbing at its neck and skeletal wings.

Sarielle spun around and grabbed Mydaiel by the wrist, dragging her through the air. Shaking herself out of her daze, Mydaiel flew alongside her sister as they streaked through the sky. “Do not ever linger in the air on Earth, Mydaiel,” Sarielle warned in a terse hiss. “We are not the only hunters in the sky.”

“What was that thing?” Mydaiel queried. Her heart was still hammering in her chest and the putrid scent still lingered in her nose.

“Something from another world, just as we are,” Sarielle replied.

“There are other beings that hunt humans?” Mydaiel pressed.

Sarielle shook her head. “They are not here for human flesh, Mydaiel. They hunt us; they are the reason the brothers accompany us. They are our guards against the Daeraere.”

Mydaiel shuddered. She curled her arms over her chest and rubbed her upper arms. A few of her feathers gently caressed the flesh on every flap. She did not like the idea of being hunted as well, and she wished her sister had told her earlier of the threat they faced.

“I had not realized we were also hunted.”

Sarielle sighed and her lips were pressed into a grim line, her eyes hard as stone. “There is always something higher on the food chain, Mydaiel. Always. Remember that.”

Mydaiel swallowed the thick lump in her throat and nodded. The creature that had just attacked them still lingered in her mind and some small part of her was desperate to turn tail and fly back to the safety of Avalon.

She almost considered it, but then her gut clenched and her hunger flared. It was a reminder that no matter her unease, she still had a duty to fulfill. Giving herself a shake, she refocused on the task at hand. She angled her wings and dropped through the air, flapping evenly to glide just above the rooftops of the sprawling city. Her vision was different in the dark; glassy and grayed, but still clear. Though the lights of the various buildings and honking cars were both blinding and deafening. As she gazed down at the world, watching the humans scrambling like ants over their concrete pathways, she inhaled sharply and drank in the various scents.

Earth did not have a pleasant air and it made her yearn for the clear, sharp air of Avalon. This was like drinking in smoke from the fire directly, and it made her choke. But beneath the overwhelming stench of the city, she could identify different trails. Some were cleaner than others, but the ones that drew her attention were the rotten ones. They hung in her senses, like dark stains on her mind. The most putrid ones rang through the clearest and on instinct, she tilted her wings and began to follow one such trail.

It led her into a dark, muddy alleyway between two tall buildings. She heard the whimpering before she saw the scene. She had been beaten here and she paused – hovering in the air – to watch the display. It was Charmeine who had found her prey here. A reeking, unshaven man who was crumpled on the ground while Charmeine dragged the tip of her glaive up over one of his legs, pressing just hard enough that a long crimson line opened in its wake.

The man was squealing like a common animal, shaking and trying to drag himself back from her. Blood oozed from several other cuts, and the slit heel that Mydaiel assumed was the first wound Charmeine had opened to down her prey. Her rose feathers were spread behind her and her dark hair caught the wind like a twisted halo. She glanced up and grinned savagely, leaning on her glaive so the blade sunk deep into the man’s calf muscle. He howled and desperately swung at her from below. She kicked him sharply and his head snapped back.

“Well met, sister, but you cannot have my prize. Best be back to your tracking before the night draws to a close,” she called up with a wink. She raised her glaive and – with a quick jerk of her corded arms – slit the human from throat to groin, completing her kill.

Mydaiel dipped her head and shot back up above the buildings where Sarielle was waiting. Now that she scented properly, she could tell which trails were already claimed, so Mydaiel twisted towards one that was void of the Nephilim smell.

Sarielle was silent as they flew, but embarrassment prickled in Mydaiel’s gut at her error.

_ Get it together._

Her new trail had her flying away from the city, to a large sprawling building on the hill. Here, there were many foul scents, and there were several humans walking up and down the paths along a stone fence that bordered the property. Most were armed, but Mydaiel knew better than to fear them and flew silently above the trees towards the house. It was dark, save for one light on, and Mydaiel banked and fluttered her wings to land on the balcony. She glanced at Sarielle one last time. Her sister’s eyebrows were dipped forward and she seemed terse, but she nodded. There was nothing wrong with taking this kill.

Her confidence renewed, Mydaiel stepped through the open glass door and into the home. The room was a large, lavish bedroom with sharp gray paint and large paintings. There was a man in the room, and the closer Mydaiel got, the more rank his smell became. Of course, it was not a true smell; not one that other humans would detect. His physical stench was coated in powerful oils and perfumes that made Mydaiel want to retch regardless. But the rot in his soul ran deeper than the surface smells, and that was what drew her to him. He wore a dark suit, and a thin metal chain around his neck. His back was to her as he sat at a large desk, counting out small plastic disks that were checked with white and various other colors. He was puffing on a small burning stick. The smoke hung in the room and made her eyes and nose sting.

Soft music was playing in the room – helping to mask her approach – and he paused in his counting to grab a glass full of a red-brown liquid. It had a powerful tang to it too. Mydaiel’s heart fluttered in her chest as she loomed behind his chair, but she reined the nerves in. She had never killed before, but she would make a poor Nephilim if the thought of ending this creature made her squeamish.

He finally seemed to notice his impending danger – or perhaps he had simply felt her shadow fall over him – for he spun his chair around to face her.

Mydaiel saw the shiny black metal gripped in his hand seconds before the shot rang out, echoing in her eardrums and making her wince. She sidestepped the bullet easily and it instead embedded itself in the wall.

The Nephilim moved faster than human beings, and she met his dark brown eyes with a merciless gaze as she stepped forward, drawing one of her sai and driving it up through his gut. The man wheezed as the hilt thudded against his flesh with a dull, wet slap. He coughed once, bloodied spittle flying from his lips to spatter over her face. Then with a wheezing croak, his eyes rolled back and his head lolled. Mydaiel remained motionless for a few heartbeats. It had been incredibly easy to take his life – and she did not feel remorse for it – but she could not help thinking back to Dalna’s words a few days ago. She wondered what her reason truly was.

She did not know this man – not that she needed to – but his crimes and his indecencies were unknown to her. She was sure he deserved it, to have a soul as corrupted as his, but she would likely never know what he was guilty of. So why had she done it? Was it simply because it was what she was groomed to do?

Feeling a little shaken, she tugged her sai from his belly and watched as the stain of his blood blossomed over his shirt like the unfurling petals of a flower.

She gave herself another shake. Now was not the time to dwell on dark thoughts. She grabbed the man by the fabric covering his chest and hauled him easily out of the chair. Sarielle was hovering by the balcony, and her worried expression morphed to a delighted grin when Mydaiel stepped back out into the night.

There was no need for an exchange of words as Mydaiel spread her wings and launched herself back into the air. Sarielle accompanied her up into the sky, where they met with another of the brotherhood. With a nod, Sarielle turned and descended back to the ground to hunt for herself.

The brother jerked his head back the other way and Mydaiel followed him to deliver her kill back to her home. She was famished, but hers was not the only belly to fill tonight. Duty came first.


End file.
